ALICE  of  OLD 


VINCENNES 


MAURICE  THOMPSON 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
G.C.DeGarmo 


Alice  of  Old  Vincznnes 


The  gowned  priest,  the  fresh-faced  and  coarsely-clad  glrJ      p.  n. 


Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 


BY 

Maurice  Thompson 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

F.  C.  YOHN 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS,      NEW      YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


COPYRIGHT,  1908 
ALICE  LEE  THOMPSON 
IGHTS  RESERVED. 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


T 


o 


To  M.  PLACIDE  VALCOUR 

M.   D.,  Pb.   D.,  LL.   D. 


MY  DEAR  DR.  VALCOUR  :    You  gave  me  the  inspiration  which 
made  this  story  haunt  me  until  I  wrote  it.     Gaspard  Roussil- 
lon's  letter,  a  mildewed  relic  of  the  year  1788,  which  you  so 
kindly  permitted  me  to  copy,  as  far  as  it  remained  legible,  was 
•I     the   point   from   which  my   imagination,   accompanied   by  my 
P^^-icuriosity,  set  out  upon  a  long  and  delightful  quest.  You  laughed 
\J  ^at  me  when  I  became  enthusiastic  regarding  the  possible  his 
torical    importance    of    that    ancient    and,    alas !    fragmentary 
epistle;  but  the  old  saying  about  the  beatitude  of  him  whose 
cachinations  are  latest  comes  handy  to  me  just  now,  and  I 
must  remind  you  that  "I  told  you  so."     True  enough,  it  was 
<*  \    history  pure  and  simple  that  I  had  in  mind  while  enjoying  the 
large  hospitality  of  your  gulf-side  home.    Gaspard  Roussillon's 
etter  then  appealed  to  my  greed  for  materials  which  would  help 
along  the  making  of  my  little  book  "The  Story  of  Louisiana." 
Later,  however,  as  my  frequent  calls  upon  you  for  both  docu- 
*    merits  and  suggestions  have  informed  you,  I  fell  to  strumming 
i  x    a  different  guitar.     And  now  to  you  I  dedicate  this  historical 
*T  romance  of   old  Vincennes,   as   a   very   appropriate,   however 
N>>slight,  recognition  of  your  scholarly  attainments,  your  distin- 
r '   \,   guished  career  in  a  noble  profession,  and  your  descent  from  one 
f  the  earliest  French  families  (if  not  the  very  earliest)  long 

387835 


resident  at  that  strange  little  post  on  the  Wabash,  now  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  cities  between  the  great  river  and  the  ocean. 

Following,  with  ever  tantalized  expectancy,  the  broken  and 
breezy  hints  in  the  Roussillon  letter,  I  pursued  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp,  here,  there,  yonder,  until  by  slowly  arriving  increments  I 
gathered  up  a  large  amount  of  valuable  facts,  which  when  I 
came  to  compare  them  with  the  history  of  Clark's  conquest  of 
the  Wabash  Valley,  fitted  amazingly  well  into  certain  spaces 
heretofore  left  open  in  that  important  yet  sadly  imperfect 
record. 

You  will  find  that  I  was  not  so  wrong  in  suspecting  that 
Emile  Jazon,  mentioned  in  the  Roussillon  letter,  was  a  brother 
of  Jean  Jazon  and  a  famous  scout  in  the  time  of  Boone  and 
Clark.  He  was,  therefore,  a  kinsman  of  yours  on  the  maternal 
side,  and  I  congratulate  you.  Another  thing  may  please  you, 
the  success  which  attended  my  long  and  patient  research  with  a 
view  to  clearing  up  the  connection  between  Alice  Roussillon's 
romantic  life,  as  brokenly  sketched  in  M.  Roussillon's  letter,  and 
the  capture  of  Vincennes  by  Colonel  George  Rogers  Clark. 

Accept,  then,  this  book,  which  to  those  who  care  only  for 
history  will  seem  but  an  idle  romance,  while  to  the  lovers  of 
romance  it  may  look  strangely  like  the  mustiest  history.  In  my 
mind,  and  in  yours  I  hope,  it  will  always  be  connected  with  a 
breezy  summer-house  on  a  headland  of  the  Louisiana  gulf  coast, 
the  rustling  of  palmetto  leaves,  the  fine  flash  of  roses,  a  tumult 
of  mocking-bird  voices,  the  soft  lilt  of  Creole  patois,  and  the 
endless  dash  and  roar  of  a  fragrant  sea  over  which  the  gulls 
and  pelicans  never  ceased  their  flight,  and  beside  which  you 
smoked  while  I  dreamed. 

MAURICE  THOMPSON. 

July,  1900. 


Contents 
I 

Under  the  Cherry  Tree  I 

II 
A  Letter  from  Afar  17 

III 

The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn  34 

IV 
The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes  49 

V 
Father  Gibault  68 

VI 
A  Fencing  Bout  86 

VII 
The  Mayor's  Party  104 

VIII 
The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm  122 

IX 
The  Honors  of  War  143 

X 
M.  Roussillon  Entertains  Colonel  Hamilton  163 

XI 
A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol 


Contents 

XII 
Manon  Lescaut,  and  a  Rapier-Thrust  203 

XIII 
A  Meeting  in  the  Wilderness  223 

XIV 
A  Prisoner  of  Love  24  $ 

XV 
Virtue  in  a  Locket  20} 

XVI 
Father  Beret's  Old  Battle  280 

XVII 
A  March  through  Cold  Water  302 

XVIII 
A  Duel  by  Moonlight  320 

XIX 
The  Attack  339 

XX 
Alice's  Flag  359 

XXI 
Some  Transactions  in  Scalps  380 

XXII 
Clark  Advises  Alice  402 

XXIII 

And  So  It  Ended  4.17 


Alice  of  Old 


ALICE  OF  OLD  VINCENNES 


CHAPTER  I 

UNDER  THE   CHERRY  TREE 

Up  to  the  days  of  Indiana's  early  statehood,  probably 
as  late  as  1825,  there  stood,  in  what  is  now  the  beau 
tiful  little  city  of  Vincennes  on  the  Wabash,  the  decay 
ing  remnant  of  an  old  and  curiously  gnarled  cherry 
tree,  known  as  the  Roussillon  tree,  le  cerisier  de  Mon 
sieur  Roussillon,  as  the  French  inhabitants  called  it, 
which  as  long  as  it  lived  bore  fruit  remarkable  for 
richness  of  flavor  and  peculiar  dark  ruby  depth  of 
color.  The  exact  spot  where  this  noble  old  seedling 
from  la  belle  France  flourished,  declined,  and  died  can 
not  be  certainly  pointed  out;  for  in  the  rapid  and 
happy  growth  of  Vincennes  many  land-marks  once 
notable,  among  them  le  cerisier  de  Monsieur  Roussillon, 
have  been  destroyed  and  the  spots  where  they  stood, 
once  familiar  to  every  eye  in  old  Vincennes,  are  now 
lost  in  the  pleasant  confusion  of  the  new  town. 

The  security  of  certain  land  titles  may  have  largely 
depended  upon  the  disappearance  of  old,  fixed  objects 
here  and  there.  Early  records  were  loosely  kept,  in 
deed,  scarcely  kept  at  all;  many  were  destroyed  by 
designing  land  speculators,  while  those  most  carefully 
preserved  often  failed  to  give  even  a  shadowy  trace 

of  the  actual  boundaries  of  the  estates  held  thereby; 

1 


2  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

so  that  the  position  of  a  house  or  tree  not  infrequently 
settled  an  important  question  of  property  rights  left 
open  by  a  primitive  deed.  At  all  events  the  Roussillon 
cherry  tree  disappeared  long  ago,  nobody  living  knows 
how,  and  with  it  also  vanished,  quite  as  mysteriously, 
all  traces  of  the  once  important  Roussillon  estate.  Not 
a  record  of  the  name  even  can  be  found,  it  is  said, 
in  church  or  county  books. 

The  old,  twisted,  gum-embossed  cherry  tree  sur 
vived  every  other  distinguishing  feature  of  what  was 
once  the  most  picturesque  and  romantic  place  in  Vin 
cennes.  Just  north  of  it  stood,  in  the  early  French 
days,  a  low,  rambling  cabin  surrounded  by  rude  ve 
randas  overgrown  with  grapevines.  This  was  the 
Roussillon  place,  the  most  pretentious  home  in  all  the 
Wabash  country.  Its  owner  was  Gaspard  Roussillon, 
a  successful  trader  with  the  Indians.  He  was  rich, 
for  the  time  and  the  place,  influential  to  a  degree,  a 
man  of  some  education,  who  had  brought  with  him  to 
the  wilderness  a  bundle  of  books  and  a  taste  for 
reading. 

From  faded  letters  and  dimly  remembered  talk  of 
those  who  once  clung  fondly  to  the  legends  and  tra 
ditions  of  old  Vincennes,  it  is  drawn  that  the  Rous 
sillon  cherry  tree  stood  not  very  far  away  from  the 
present  site  of  the  Catholic  church,  on  a  slight  swell 
of  ground  overlooking  a  wide  marshy  flat  and  the  sil 
ver  current  of  the  Wabash.  If  the  tree  grew  there, 
then  there  too  stood  the  Rousillon  house  with  its  cosy 
log  rooms,  its  clay-daubed  chimneys  and  its  grape 
vine-mantled  verandas,  while  some  distance  away  and 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  3 

nearer  the  river  the  rude  fort  with  its  huddled 
officers'  quarters  seemed  to  fling  out  over  the  wild  land 
scape,  through  its  squinting  and  lopsided  port-holes, 
a  gaze  of  stubborn  defiance. 

Not  far  off  was  the  little  log  church,  where  one  good 
Father  Beret,  or  as  named  by  the  Indians,  who  all 
loved  him,  Father  Blackrobe,  performed  the  services 
of  his  sacred  calling;  and  scattered  all  around  were 
the  cabins  of  traders,  soldiers  and  woodsmen  forming 
a  queer  little  town,  the  like  of  which  cannot  now  be 
seen  anywhere  on  the  earth. 

It  is  not  known  just  when  Vincennes  was  first 
founded;  but  most  historians  make  the  probable  date 
very  early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  somewhere  be 
tween  1710  and  1730.  In  1810  the  Roussillon  cherry 
tree  was  thought  by  a  distinguished  botanical  letter- 
writer  to  be  at  least  fifty  years  old,  which  would  make 
the  date  of  its  planting  about  1760.  Certainly  as 
shown  by  the  time-stained  family  records  upon  which 
this  story  of  ours  is  based,  it  was  a  flourishing  and 
wide-topped  tree  in  early  summer  of  1778,  its  branches 
loaded  to  drooping  with  luscious  fruit.  So  low  did  the 
dark  red  clusters  hang  at  one  point  that  a  tall  young 
girl  standing  on  the  ground  easily  reached  the  best 
ones  and  made  her  lips  purple  with  their  juice  while 
she  ate  them. 

That  was  long  ago,  measured  by  what  has  come  to 
pass  on  the  gentle  swell  of  rich  country  from  which 
Vincennes  overlooks  the  Wabash.  The  new  town 
flourishes  notably  and  its  appearance  marks  the  latest 
limit  of  progress.  Electric  cars  in  its  streets,  electric 


4  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

lights  in  its  beautiful  homes,  the  roar  of  railway  trains 
coming  and  going  in  all  directions,  bicycles  whirling 
hither  and  thither,  the  most  fashionable  styles  of 
equipages,  from  brougham  to  pony-phaeton,  make  the 
days  of  flint-lock  guns  and  buckskin  trousers  seem 
ages  down  the  past;  and  yet  we  are  looking  back 
over  but  a  little  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty  years 
to  see  Alice  Roussillon  standing  under  the  cherry  tree 
and  holding  high  a  tempting  cluster  of  fruit,  while  a 
very  short,  hump-backed  youth  looks  up  with  longing 
eyes  and  vainly  reaches  for  it.  The  tableau  is  not 
merely  rustic,  it  is  primitive. 

"Jump !"  the  girl  is  saying  in  French,  "jump,  Jean ; 
jump  high!" 

Yes,  that  was  very  long  ago,  in  the  days  when  wo 
men  lightly  braved  what  the  strongest  men  would 
shrink  from  now. 

Alice  Roussillon  was  tall,  lithe,  strongly  knit,  with  an 
almost  perfect  figure,  judging  by  what  the  master 
sculptors  carved  for  the  form  of  Venus,  and  her  face 
was  comely  and  winning,  if  not  absolutely  beautiful ; 
but  the  time  and  the  place  were  vigorously  indicated 
by  her  dress,  which  was  of  coarse  stuff  and  simply  de 
signed.  Plainly  she  was  a  child  of  the  American 
wilderness,  a  daughter  of  old  Vincennes  on  the  Wa- 
bash  in  the  time  that  tried  men's  souls. 

"Jump,  Jean!"  she  cried,  her  face  laughing  with  a 
show  of  cheek-dimples,  an  arching  of  finely  sketched 
brows  and  the  twinkling  of  large  blue-gray  eyes. 

"Jump  high  and  get  them!" 

While   she   waved   her   sun-browned   hand   holding 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  5 

the  cherries  aloft,  the  breeze  blowing  fresh  from  the 
southwest  tossed  her  hair  so  that  some  loose  strands 
shone  like  rimpled  flames. 

The  sturdy  little  hunchback  did  leap  with  surprising 
activity;  but  the  treacherous  brown  hand  went  higher, 
so  high  that  the  combined  altitude  of  his  jump  and  the 
reach  of  his  unnaturally  long  arms  was  overcome. 
Again  and  again  he  sprang  vainly  into  the  air  com 
ically,  like  a  long-legged,  squat-bodied  frog. 

"And  you  brag  of  your  agility  and  strength,  Jean," 
she  laughingly  remarked;  "but  you  can't  take  cherries 
when  they  are  offered  to  you.  What  a  clumsy  bungler 
you  are." 

"I  can  climb  and  get  some,"  he  said  with  a  hideously 
happy  grin,  and  immediately  embraced  the  bole  of  the 
tree,  up  which  he  began  scrambling  almost  as  fast  as  a 
squirrel. 

When  he  had  mounted  high  enough  to  be  extending 
a  hand  for  a  hold  on  a  crotch,  Alice  grasped  his  leg 
near  the  foot  and  pulled  him  down,  despite  his  clinging 
and  struggling,  until  his  hands  clawed  in  the  soft  earth 
at  the  tree's  root,  while  she  held  his  captive  leg  almost 
vertically  erect. 

It  was  a  show  of  great  strength;  but  Alice  looked 
quite  unconscious  of  it,  laughing  merrily,  the  dimples 
deepening  in  her  plump  cheeks,  her  forearm,  now 
bared  to  the  elbow,  gleaming  white  and  shapely  while 
its  muscles  rippled  on  account  of  the  jerking  and  kick 
ing  of  Jean. 

All  the  time  she  was  holding  the  cherries  high  in 
her  other  hand,  shaking  them  by  the  twig  to  which 


6  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

their  slender  stems  attached  them,  and  saying  in  a 
sweetly  tantalizing  tone : 

"What  makes  you  climb  downward  after  cherries, 
Jean?  What  a  foolish  fellow  you  are,  indeed,  trying 
to  grabble  cherries  out  of  the  ground,  as  you  do  po 
tatoes  !  I'm  sure  I  didn't  suppose  that  you  knew  so 
little  as  that." 

Her  French  was  colloquial,  but  quite  good,  showing 
here  and  there  what  we  often  notice  in  the  speech  of 
those  who  have  been  educated  in  isolated  places  far 
from  that  babel  of  polite  energies  which  we  call  the 
world;  something  that  may  be  described  as  a  bookish 
cast  appearing  oddly  in  the  midst  of  phrasing  dis 
tinctly  rustic  and  local, — a  peculiarity  not  easy  to 
transfer  from  one  language  to  another. 

Jean  the  hunchback  was  a  muscular  little  deformity 
and  a  wonder  of  good  nature.  His  head  looked  un 
naturally  large,  nestling  grotesquely  between  the  points 
of  his  lifted  and  distorted  shoulders,  like  a  shaggy 
black  animal  in  the  fork  of  a  broken  tree.  He  was 
bellicose  in  his  amiable  way  and  never  knew  just  when 
to  acknowledge  defeat.  How  long  he  might  have  kept 
up  the  hopeless  struggle  with  the  girl's  invincible  grip 
would  be  hard  to  guess.  His  release  was  caused  by 
the  approach  of  a  third  person,  who  wore  the  robe 
of  a  Catholic  priest  and  the  countenance  of  a  man  who 
had  lived  and  suffered  a  long  time  without  much  loss 
of  physical  strength  and  endurance. 

This  was  Pere  Beret,  grizzly,  short,  compact,  his 
face  deeply  lined,  his  mouth  decidedly  aslant  on  ac 
count  of  some  lost  teeth,  and  his  eyes  set  deep  under 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  7 

gray,  shaggy  brows.  Looking  at  him  when  his  features 
were  in  repose  a  first  impression  might  not  have  been 
favorable ;  but  seeing  him  smile  or  hearing  him  speak 
changed  everything.  His  voice  was  sweetness  itself 
and  his  smile  won  you  on  the  instant.  Something  like 
a  pervading  sorrow  always  seemed  to  be  close  behind 
his  eyes  and  under  his  speech;  yet  he  was  a  genial, 
sometimes  almost  jolly,  man,  very  prone  to  join  in  the 
lighter  amusements  of  his  people. 

"Children,  children,  my  children,"  he  called  out  as 
he  approached  along  a  little  pathway  leading  up  from 
the  direction  of  the  church,  "what  are  you  doing  now? 
Bah  there,  Alice,  will  you  pull  Jean's  leg  off?" 

At  first  they  did  not  hear  him,  they  were  so  nearly 
deafened  by  their  own  vocal  discords. 

"Why  are  you  standing  on  your  head  with  your  feet 
so  high  in  air,  Jean?"  he  added.  "It's  not  a  polite 
attitude  in  the  presence  of  a  young  lady.  Are  you  a 
pig,  that  you  poke  your  nose  in  the  dirt?" 

Alice  now  turned  her  bright  head  and  gave  Pere 
Beret  a  look  of  frank  welcome,  which  at  the  same  time 
shot  a  beam  of  willful  self-assertion. 

"My  daughter,  are  you  trying  to  help  Jean  up  the 
tree  feet  foremost?"  the  priest  added,  standing  where 
he  had  halted  just  outside  of  the  straggling  yard  fence. 

He  had  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  was  quietly 
chuckling  at  the  scene  before  him,  as  one  who,  al 
though  old,  sympathized  with  the  natural  and  harmless 
sportiveness  of  young  people  and  would  as  lief  as  not 
join  in  a  prank  or  two. 

"You  see  what  I'm  doing,  Father  Beret,"  said  Alice. 


8  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"I  am  preventing  a  great  damage  to  you.  You  will 
maybe  lose  a  good  many  cherry  pies  and  dumplings  if 
I  let  Jean  go.  He  was  climbing  the  tree  to  pilfer  the 
fruit;  so  I  pulled  him  down,  you  understand." 

"Ta,  ta !"  exclaimed  the  good  man,  shaking  his  gray 
head;  "we  must  reason  with  the  child.  Let  go  his 
leg,  daughter,  I  will  vouch  for  him;  eh,  Jean?" 

Alice  released  the  hunchback,  then  laughed  gayly 
and  tossed  the  cluster  of  cherries  into  his  hand,  where 
upon  he  began  munching  them  voraciously  and  talking 
at  the  same  time. 

"I  knew  I  could  get  them,"  he  boasted;  "and  see,  I 
have  them  now."  He  hopped  around,  looking  like  a 
species  of  ill-formed  monkey. 

Pere  Beret  came  and  leaned  on  the  low  fence  close 
to  Alice.  She  was  almost  as  tall  as  he. 

"The  sun  scorches  to-day,"  he  said,  beginning  to 
mop  his  furrowed  face  with  a  red-flowered  cotton 
handkerchief ;  "and  from  the  look  of  the  sky  yonder," 
pointing  southward,  "it  is  going  to  bring  on  a  storm. 
How  is  Madame  Roussillon  to-day?" 

"She  is  complaining  as  she  usually  does  when  she 
feels  extremely  well,"  said  Alice;  "that's  why  I  had 
to  take  her  place  at  the  oven  and  bake  pies.  I  got  hot 
and  came  out  to  catch  a  bit  of  this  breeze.  Oh,  but 
you  needn't  smile  and  look  greedy,  Pere  Beret,  the  pies 
are  not  for  your  teeth !" 

"My  daughter,  I  am  not  a  glutton,  I  hope;  I  had 
meat  not  two  hours  since — some  broiled  young  squir 
rels  with  cress,  sent  me  by  Rene  de  Ronville.  He 
never  forgets  his  old  father." 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  9 

"Oh,  I  never  forget  you  either,  mon  pere;  I  thought 
of  you  to-day  every  time  I  spread  a  crust  and  filled  it 
with  cherries;  and  when  I  took  out  a  pie  all  brown 
and  hot,  the  red  juice  bubbling  out  of  it  so  good 
smelling  and  tempting,  do  you  know  what  I  said  to 
myself?" 

"How  could  I  know,  my  child?" 

"Well,  I  thought  this:  'Not  a  single  bite  of  that 
pie  does  Father  Beret  get.'  " 

"Why  so,  daughter?" 

"Because  you  said  it  was  bad  of  me  to  read  novels 
and  told  Mother  Roussillon  to  hide  them  from  me. 
I've  had  any  amount  of  trouble  about  it." 

"Ta,  ta!  read  the  good  books  that  I  gave  you. 
They  will  soon  kill  the  taste  for  these  silly  romances." 

"I  tried,"  said  Alice;  "I  tried  very  hard,  and  it's 
no  use ;  your  books  are  dull  and  stupidly  heavy.  What 
do  I  care  about  something  that  a  queer  lot  of  saints  did 
hundreds  of  years  ago  in  times  of  plague  and  famine? 
Saints  must  have  been  poky  people,  and  it  is  poky  peo 
ple  who  care  to  read  about  them,  I  think.  I  like  read 
ing  about  brave,  heroic  men  and  beautiful  women,  and 
war  and  love." 

Pere  Beret  looked  away  with  a  curious  expression 
in  his  face,  his  eyes  half  closed. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  now,  Father  Beret,"  Alice  went 
on  after  a  pause,  "no  more  claret  and  pies  do  you  get 
until  I  can  have  my  own  sort  of  books  back  again  to 
read  as  I  please."  She  stamped  her  moccasin-shod 
foot  with  decided  energy. 

The  good  priest  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  tak- 


1O  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ing  off  his  cap  of  grass-straw  mechanically  scratched 
his  bald  head.  He  looked  at  the  tall,  strong  girl  before 
him  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  it  would  have  been  hard 
for  the  best  physiognomist  to  decide  just  how  much 
of  approval  and  how  much  of  disapproval  that  look 
really  signified. 

Although,  as  Father  Beret  had  said,  the  sun's  heat 
was  violent,  causing  that  gentle  soul  to  pass  his 
bundled  handkerchief  with  a  wiping  circular  motion 
over  his  bald  and  bedewed  pate,  the  wind  was  mo 
mently  freshening,  while  up  from  behind  the  trees  on 
the  horizon  beyond  the  river,  a  cloud  was  rising  blue- 
black,  tumbled,  and  grim  against  the  sky. 

"Well,"  said  the  priest,  evidently  trying  hard  to  ex 
change  his  laugh  for  a  look  of  regretful  resignation, 
"you  will  have  your  own  way,  my  child,  and " 

"Then  you  will  have  pies  galore  and  no  end  of 
claret !"  she  interrupted,  at  the  same  time  stepping  to 
the  withe-tied  and  peg-latched  gate  of  the  yard  and 
opening  it.  "Come  in,  you  dear,  good  Father,  before 
the  rain  shall  begin,  and  sit  with  me  on  the  gallery" 
(the  creole  word  for  veranda)  "till  the  storm  is  over." 

Father  Beret  seemed  not  loath  to  enter,  albeit  he 
offered  a  weak  protest  against  delaying  some  task  he 
had  in  hand.  Alice  reached  forth  and  pulled  him  in, 
then  reclosed  the  queer  little  gate  and  pegged  it.  She 
caressingly  passed  her  arm  through  his  and  looked  into 
his  weather-stained  old  face  with  childlike  affection. 

There  was  not  a  photographer's  camera  to  be  had  in 
those  days ;  but  what  if  a  tourist  with  one  in  hand  could 
have  been  there  to  take  a  snapshot  at  the  priest  and 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  11 

the  maiden  as  they  walked  arm  in  arm  to  that  squat 
little  veranda !  The  picture  to-day  would  be  worth  its 
weight  in  a  first-water  diamond.  It  would  include  the 
cabin,  the  cherry-tree,  a  glimpse  of  the  raw,  wild  back 
ground  and  a  sharp  portrait-group  of  Pere  Beret,  Alice, 
and  Jean  the  hunchback.  To  compare  it  with  a  photo 
graph  of  the  same  spot  now  would  give  a  perfect  im 
pression  of  the  historic  atmosphere,  color  and  condi 
tions  which  cannot  be  set  in  words.  But  we  must  not 
belittle  the  power  of  verbal  description.  What  if  a 
thoroughly  trained  newspaper  reporter  had  been  given 
the  freedom  of  old  Vincennes  on  the  Wabash  during 
the  first  week  of  June,  1/78,  and  we  now  had  his  printed 
story!  What  a  supplement  to  the  photographer's  pic 
tures  !  Well,  we  have  neither  photographs  nor  graphic 
report;  yet  there  they  are  before  us,  the  gowned  and 
straw-capped  priest,  the  fresh- faced,  coarsely-clad  and 
vigorous  girl,  the  grotesque  little  hunchback,  all  just 
as  real  as  life  itself.  Each  of  us  can  see  them,  even  with 
closed  eyes.  Led  by  that  wonderful  guide,  Imagina 
tion,  we  step  back  a  century  and  more  to  look  over  a 
scene  at  once  strangely  attractive  and  unspeakably 
forlorn. 

What  was  it  that  drew  people  away  from  the  old 
countries,  from  the  cities,  the  villages  and  the  vine 
yards  of  beautiful  France,  for  example,  to  dwell  in  the 
wilderness,  amid  wild  beasts  and  wilder  savage  Indi 
ans,  with  a  rude  cabin  for  a  home  and  the  exposures 
and  hardships  of  pioneer  life  for  their  daily  experience? 

Men  like  Gaspard  Roussillon  are  of  a  distinct  stamp. 
Take  him  as  he  was.  Born  in  France,  on  the  banks  of 


12  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  Rhone  near  Avignon,  he  came  as  a  youth  to  Canada, 
whence  he  drifted  on  the  tide  of  adventure  this  way  and 
that,  until  at  last  he  found  himself,  with  a  wife,  at  Post 
Vincennes,  that  lonely  picket  of  religion  and  trade, 
which  was  to  become  the  center  of  civilizing  energy 
for  the  great  Northwestern  Territory.  M.  Roussillon 
had  no  children  of  his  own;  so  his  kind  heart  opened 
freely  to  two  fatherless  and  motherless  waifs.  These 
were  Alice,  now  called  Alice  Roussillon,  and  the  hunch 
back,  Jean.  The  former  was  twelve  years  old,  when  he 
adopted  her,  a  child  of  Protestant  parents,  while  Jean 
had  been  taken,  when  a  mere  babe,  after  his  parents 
had  been  killed  and  scalped  by  Indians.  Madame  Rous 
sillon,  a  professed  invalid,  whose  appetite  never  failed 
and  whose  motherly  kindness  expressed  itself  most 
often  through  strains  of  monotonous  falsetto  scolding, 
was  a  woman  of  little  education  and  no  refinement; 
while  her  husband  clung  tenaciously  to  his  love  of 
books,  especially  to  the  romances  most  in  vogue  when 
he  took  leave  of  France. 

M.  Roussillon  had  been,  in  a  way,  Alice's  teacher, 
though  not  greatly  inclined  to  abet  Father  Beret  in  his 
kindly  efforts  to  make  a  Catholic  of  the  girl,  and  most 
treacherously  disposed  toward  the  good  priest  in  the 
matter  of  his  well-meant  attempts  to  prevent  her  from 
reading  and  re-reading  the  aforesaid  romances.  But 
for  many  weeks  past  Gaspard  Roussillon  had  been  ab 
sent  from  home,  looking  after  his  trading  schemes  with 
the  Indians ;  and  Pere  Beret  acting  on  the  suggestion 
of  the  proverb  about  the  absent  cat  and  the  playing 
mouse,  had  formed  an  alliance  offensive  and  defensive 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  13 

with  Madame  Roussillon,  in  which  it  was  strictly  stip 
ulated  that  all  novels  and  romances  were  to  be  forcibly 
taken  and  securely  hidden  away  from  Mademoiselle 
Alice;  which,  to  the  best  of  Madame  Roussillon's 
ability,  had  accordingly  been  done. 

Now,  while  the  wind  strengthened  and  the  softly 
booming  summer  shower  came  on  apace,  the  heavy 
cloud  lifting  as  it  advanced  and  showing  under  it  the 
dark  gray  sheet  of  the  rain,  Pere  Beret  and  Alice  sat 
under  the  clapboard  roof  behind  the  vines  of  the  ve 
randa  and  discussed,  what  was  generally  uppermost  in 
the  priest's  mind  upon  such  occasions,  the  good  of 
Alice's  immortal  soul, — a  subject  not  absorbingly  inter 
esting  to  her  at  any  time. 

It  was  a  standing  grief  to  the  good  old  priest,  this 
strange  perversity  of  the  girl  in  the  matter  of  religious 
duty,  as  he  saw  it.  True  she  had  a  faithful  guardian 
in  Gaspard  Roussillon;  but,  much  as  he  had  done  to 
aid  the  church's  work  in  general,  for  he  was  always 
vigorous  and  liberal,  he  could  not  be  looked  upon  as  a 
very  good  Catholic ;  and  of  course  his  influence  was  not 
effective  in  the  right  direction.  But  then  Pere  Beret 
saw  no  reason  why,  in  due  time  and  with  patient  work, 
aided  by  Madame  Roussillon  and  notwithstanding 
Gaspard's  treachery,  he  might  not  safely  lead  Alice, 
whom  he  loved  as  a  dear  child,  into  the  arms  of  the 
Holy  Church,  to  serve  which  faithfully,  at  all  hazards 
and  in  all  places,  was  his  highest  aim. 

"Ah,  my  child,"  he  was  saying,  "you  are  a  sweet, 
good  girl,  after  all,  much  better  than  you  make  your- 


14  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

self  out  to  be.    Your  duty  will  control  you ;  you  wil  I 
do  it  nobly  at  last,  my  child." 

"True  enough,  Father  Beret,  true  enough !"  she  re 
sponded,  laughing,  "your  perception  is  most  excellent, 
which  I  will  prove  to  you  immediately." 

She  rose  while  speaking  and  went  into  the  house. 

"I'll  return  in  a  minute  or  two,"  she  called  back  from 
a  region  which  Pere  Beret  well  knew  was  that  of  the 
pantry ;  "don't  get  impatient  and  go  away !" 

Pere  Beret  laughed  softly  at  the  preposterous  sug 
gestion  that  he  would  even  dream  of  going  out  in  the 
rain,  which  was  now  roaring  heavily  on  the  loose  board 
roof,  and  miss  a  cut  of  cherry  pie — a  cherry  pie  of 
Alice's  making!  And  the  Roussillon  claret,  too,  was 
always  excellent.  "Ah,  child,"  he  thought,  "your  old 
Father  is  not  going  away." 

She  presently  returned,  bearing  on  a  wooden  tray  a 
ruby-stained  pie  and  a  short,  stout  bottle  flanked  by 
two  glasses. 

"Of  course  I'm  better  than  I  sometimes  appear  to 
be,"  she  said,  almost  humbly,  but  with  mischief  still  in 
her  voice  and  eyes,  "and  I  shall  get  to  be  very  good 
when  I  have  grown  old.  The  sweetness  of  my  present 
nature  is  in  this  pie." 

She  set  the  tray  on  a  three-legged  stool  which  she 
pushed  close  to  him. 

"There  now,"  she  said,  "let  the  rain  come,  you'll  be 
happy,  rain  or  shine,  while  the  pie  and  wine  last,  I'll 
be  bound." 

Pere  Beret  fell  to  eating  right  heartily,  meantime 
handing  Jean  a  liberal  piece  of  the  luscious  pie. 


Under  the  Cherry  Tree  15 

"It  is  good,  my  daughter,  very  good,  indeed,"  the 
priest  remarked  with  his  mouth  full.  "Madame  Rous- 
sillon  has  not  neglected  your  culinary  education."  Alice 
filled  a  glass  for  him.  It  was  Bordeaux  and  very  fra 
grant.  The  bouquet  reminded  him  of  his  sunny  boy 
hood  in  France,  of  his  journey  up  to  Paris  and  of  his 
careless,  joy-brimmed  youth  in  the  gay  city.  How  far 
away,  how  misty,  yet  how  thrillingly  sweet  it  all  was ! 
He  sat  with  half  closed  eyes  awhile,  sipping  and  dream 
ing. 

The  rain  lasted  nearly  two  hours ;  but  the  sun  was 
out  again  when  Pere  Beret  took  leave  of  his  young 
friend.  They  had  been  having  another  good-natured 
quarrel  over  the  novels,  and  Madame  Roussillon  had 
come  out  on  the  veranda  to  join  in. 

"I've  hidden  every  book  of  them,"  said  Madame,  a 
stout  and  swarthy  woman  whose  pearl-white  teeth  were 
her  only  mark  of  beauty.  Her  voice  indicated  great 
stubbornness. 

"Good,  good,  you  have  done  your  very  duty,  Ma~ 
dame,"  said  Pere  Beret,  with  immense  approval  in  his 
charming  voice. 

"But,  Father,  you  said  awhile  ago  that  I  should  have 
my  own  way  about  this,"  Alice  spoke  up  with  spirit  ,- 
"and  on  the  strength  of  that  remark  of  yours  I  gave 
you  the  pie  and  wine.  You've  eaten  my  pie  and  swigged 
the  wine,  and  now — " 

Pere  Beret  put  on  his  straw  cap,  adjusting  it  care 
fully  over  the  shining  dome  out  of  which  had  come  so 
many  thoughts  of  wisdom,  kindness  and  human  synv 


16  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

pathy.  This  done,  he  gently  laid  a  hand  on  Alice's 
bright  crown  of  hair  and  said : 

"Bless  you,  my  child.  I  will  pray  to  the  Prince  of 
Peace  for  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  I  will  never  cease 
to  beg  the  Holy  Virgin  to  intercede  for  you  and  lead 
you  to  the  Holy  Church." 

He  turned  and  went  away ;  but  when  he  was  no  far 
ther  than  the  gate,  Alice  called  out : 

"O  Father  Beret,  I  forgot  to  show  you  something !" 

She  ran  forth  to  him  and  added  in  a  low  tone : 

"You  know  that  Madame  Roussillon  has  hidden  all 
the  novels  from  me." 

She  was  fumbling  to  get  something  out  of  the  loose 
front  of  her  dress. 

"Well,  just  take  a  glance  at  this,  will  you  ?"  and  she 
showed  him  a  little  leather  bound  volume,  much 
cracked  along  the  hinges  of  the  back. 

It  was  Manon  Lescaut,  that  dreadful  romance  by  the 
famous  Abbe  Prevost. 

Pere  Beret  frowned  and  went  his  way  shaking  his 
head;  but  before  he  reached  his  little  hut  near  the 
church  he  was  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"She's  not  so  bad,  not  so  bad,"  he  thought  aloud, 
:'it's  only  her  young,  independent  spirit  taking  the  bit 
for  a  wild  run.  In  her  .sweet  soul  she  is  as  good  as  she 
is  pure," 


CHAPTER  II 

A  LETTER  FROM   AFAR 

Although  Father  Beret  was  for  many  years  a  mis 
sionary  on  the  Wabash,  most  of  the  time  at  Vincennes, 
the  fact  that  no  mention  of  him  can  be  found  in  the  rec 
ords  is  not  stranger  than  many  other  things  connected 
with  the  old  town's  history.  He  was,  like  nearly  all  the 
men  of  his  calling  in  that  day,  a  self-effacing  and  mod 
est  hero,  apparently  quite  unaware  that  he  deserved  at 
tention.  He  and  Father  Gibault,  whose  name  is  so 
beautifully  and  nobly  connected  with  the  stirring 
achievements  of  Colonel  George  Rogers  Clark,  were 
close  friends  and  often  companions.  Probably  Father 
Gibault  himself,  whose  fame  will  never  fade,  would 
have  been  to-day  as  obscure  as  Father  Beret,  but  for 
the  opportunity  given  him  by  Clark  to  fix  his  name  in 
the  list  of  heroic  patriots  who  assisted  in  winning  the 
great  Northwest  from  the  English. 

Vincennes,  even  in  the  earliest  days  of  its  history, 
somehow  kept  up  communication  and,  considering  the 
circumstances,  close  relations  with  New  Orleans.  It 
was  much  nearer  Detroit;  but  the  Louisiana  colony 
stood  next  to  France  in  the  imagination  and  longing 
of  priests,  voyageurs,  coureurs  de  bois  and  reckless 
adventurers  who  had  Latin  blood  in  their  veins.  Father 
Beret  first  came  to  Vincennes  from  New  Orleans,  the 
voyage  up  the  Mississippi,  Ohio,  and  Wabash,  in  a 
pirogue,  lasting  through  a  whole  summer  and  far  into 


i8  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  autumn.  Since  his  arrival  the  post  had  experienced 
many  vicissitudes,  and  at  the  time  in  which  our  story 
opens  the  British  government  claimed  right  of  domin 
ion  over  the  great  territory  drained  by  the  Wabash, 
and,  indeed,  over  a  large,  indefinitely  outlined  part  of 
the  North  American  continent  lying  above  Mexico; 
a  claim  just  then  being  vigorously  questioned,  flint 
lock  in  hand,  by  the  Anglo-American  colonies. 

Of  course  the  handful  of  French  people  at  Vin 
cennes,  so  far  away  from  every  center  of  information, 
and  wholly  occupied  with  their  trading,  trapping  and 
missionary  work,  were  late  finding  out  that  war  existed 
between  England  and  her  colonies.  Nor  did  it  really 
matter  much  with  them,  one  way  or  another.  They 
felt  secure  in  their  lonely  situation,  and  so  went  on 
selling  their  trinkets,  weapons,  domestic  implements, 
blankets  and  intoxicating  liquors  to  the  Indians,  whom 
they  held  bound  to  them  with  a  power  never  possessed 
by  any  other  white  dwellers  in  the  wilderness.  Father 
Beret  was  probably  subordinate  to  Father  Gibault.  At 
all  events  the  latter  appears  to  have  had  nominal  charge 
of  Vincennes,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that  he 
left  Father  Beret  on  the  Wabash,  while  he  went  to  live 
and  labor  for  a  time  at  Kaskaskia  beyond  the  plains  of 
Illinois. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  religion  and  the  power  oi 
rum  and  brandy  worked  together  successfully  for  a 
long  time  in  giving  the  French  posts  almost  absolute 
influence  over  the  wild  and  savage  men  by  whom 
they  were  always  surrounded.  The  good  priests  dep 
recated  the  traffic  in  liquors  and  tried  hard  to  control 


A  Letter  from  Afar  IQ 

it,  but  soldiers  of  fortune  and  reckless  traders  were  in 
the  majority,  their  interests  taking  precedence  of  all 
spiritual  demands  and  carrying  everything  along. 
What  could  the  brave  missionaries  do  but  make  the 
very  best  of  a  perilous  situation  ? 

In  those  days  wine  was  drunk  by  almost  everybody, 
its  use  at  table  and  as  an  article  of  incidental  refresh 
ment  and  social  pleasure  being  practically  universal; 
wherefore  the  steps  of  reform  in  the  matter  of  intem 
perance  were  but  rudimentary  and  in  all  places  beset  by 
well-nigh  insurmountable  difficulties.  In  fact  the  exi 
gencies  of  frontier  life  demanded,  perhaps,  the  very 
stimulus  which,  when  over  indulged  in,  caused  so  much 
evil.  Malaria  loaded  the  air,  and  the  most  efficacious 
drugs  now  at  command  were  then  undiscovered  or 
could  not  be  had.  Intoxicants  were  the  only  popular 
specific.  Men  drank  to  prevent  contracting  ague,  drank 
again,  between  rigors,  to  cure  it,  and  yet  again  to  brace 
themselves  during  convalescence. 

But  if  the  effect  of  rum  as  a  beverage  had  strong 
allurement  for  the  white  man,  it  made  an  absolute  slave 
of  the  Indian,  who  never  hesitated  for  a  moment  to 
undertake  any  task,  no  matter  how  hard,  bear  any  pri 
vation,  even  the  most  terrible,  or  brave  any  danger, 
although  it  might  demand  reckless  desperation,  if  in 
the  end  a  well  filled  bottle  or  jug  appeared  as  his  re 
ward. 

Of  course  the  traders  did  not  overlook  such  a  source 
of  power.  Alcoholic  liquor  became  their  implement 
of  almost  magical  work  in  controlling  the  lives,  labors, 
and  resources  of  the  Indians.  The  priests  with  their 


2O  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

captivating  story  of  the  Cross  had  a  large  influence  in 
softening  savage  natures  and  averting  many  an  awful 
danger;  but  when  everything  else  failed,  rum  always 
came  to  the  rescue  of  a  threatened  French  post. 

We  need  not  wonder,  then,  when  we  are  told  that 
Father  Beret  made  no  sign  of  distress  or  disapproval 
upon  being  informed  of  the  arrival  of  a  boat  loaded 
with  rum,  brandy  or  gin.  It  was  Rene  de  Ronville 
who  brought  the  news,  the  same  Rene  already  men 
tioned  as  having  given  the  priest  a  plate  of  squirrels. 
He  was  sitting  on  the  doorsill  of  Father  Beret's  hut, 
when  the  old  man  reached  it  after  his  visit  at  the 
Roussillon  home,  and  held  in  his  hand  a  letter  which 
he  appeared  proud  to  deliver. 

"A  batteau  and  seven  men,  with  a  cargo  of  liquor, 
came  during  the  rain,"  he  said,  rising  and  taking  off 
his  curious  cap,  which,  made  of  an  animal's  skin,  had  a 
tail  jauntily  dangling  from  its  crown-tip ;  "and  here  is  a 
letter  for  you,  Father.  The  batteau  is  from  New  Or 
leans.  Eight  men  started  with  it ;  but  one  went  ashore 
to  hunt  and  was  killed  by  an  Indian." 

Father  Beret  took  the  letter  without  apparent  inter 
est  and  said : 

"Thank  you,  my  son,  sit  down  again ;  the  door-log  is 
not  wetter  than  the  stools  inside ;  I  will  sit  by  you." 

The  wind  had  driven  a  flood  of  rain  into  the  cabin 
through  the  open  door,  and  water  twinkled  in  puddles 
here  and  there  on  the  floor's  puncheons.  They  sat  down 
side  by  side,  Father  Beret  fingering  the  letter  in  an  ab 
sent-minded  way. 


A  Letter  from  Afar  21 

"There'll  be  a  jolly  time  of  it  to-night/'  Rene  de 
Ronrille  remarked,  "a  roaring  time." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  my  son?"  the  priest  de 
manded. 

"The  wine  and  the  liquor,"  was  the  reply;  "much 
drinking  will  be  done.  The  men  have  all  been  dry 
here  for  some  time,  you  know,  and  are  as  thirsty  as 
sand.  They  are  making  ready  to  enjoy  themselves 
down  at  the  river  house." 

"Ah,  the  poor  souls !"  sighed  Father  Beret,  speaking 
as  one  whose  thoughts  were  wandering  far  away. 

"Why  don't  you  read  your  letter,  Father?"  Rene 
added. 

The  priest  started,  turned  the  soiled  square  of  paper 
over  in  his  hand,  then  thrust  it  inside  his  robe. 

"It  can  wait,"  he  said.  Then,  changing  his  voice ; 
"the  squirrels  you  gave  me  were  excellent,  my  son. 
It  was  good  of  you  to  think  of  me,"  he  added,  laying 
his  hand  on  Rene's  arm. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  if  I  have  pleased  you,  Father  Beret, 
for  you  are  so  kind  to  me  always,  and  to  everybody. 
When  I  killed  the  squirrels  I  said  to  myself :  'These  are 
young,  juicy  and  tender,  Father  Beret  must  have  these,' 
so  I  brought  them  along." 

The  young  man  rose  to  go;  for  he  was  somehow 
impressed  that  Father  Beret  must  wish  opportunity  to 
read  his  letter,  and  would  prefer  to  be  left  alone  vrith 
it.  But  the  priest  pulled  him  down  again. 

"Stay  a  while,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  had  a  talk  with 
you  for  some  time." 

Rene  looked  a  trifle  uneasy. 


22  Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

"You  will  not  drink  any  to-night,  my  son,"  Father 
Beret  added.  "You  must  not ;  do  you  hear?" 

The  young  man's  eyes  and  mouth  at  once  began  to 
have  a  sullen  expression ;  evidently  he  was  not  pleased 
and  felt  rebellious;  but  it  was  hard  for  him  to  resist 
Father  Beret,  whom  he  loved,  as  did  every  soul  in  the 
post.  The  priest's  voice  was  sweet  and  gentle,  yet 
positive  to  a  degree.  Rene  did  not  say  a  word. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  not  taste  liquor  this 
night,"  Father  Beret  went  on,  grasping  the  young 
man's  arm  more  firmly ;  "promise  me,  my  son,  promise 
me." 

Still  Rene  was  silent.  The  men  did  not  look  at  each 
other,  but  gazed  away  across  the  country  beyond  the 
Wabash  to  where  a  glory  from  the  western  sun 
flamed  on  the  upper  rim  of  a  great  cloud  fragment 
creeping  along  the  horizon.  Warm  as  the  day  had  been, 
a  delicious  coolness  now  began  to  temper  the  air ;  for 
the  wind  had  shifted  into  the  northwest.  A  meadow- 
lark  sang  dreamingly  in  the  wild  grass  of  the  low  lands 
hard  by,  over  which  two  or  three  prairie  hawks  hov 
ered  with  wings  that  beat  rapidly. 

"Eh  bien,  I  must  go,"  said  Rene  presently,  getting  to 
his  feet  nimbly  and  evading  Father  Beret's  hand  which 
would  have  held  him. 

"Not  to  the  river  house,  my  son?"  said  the  priest 
appealingly. 

"No,  not  there ;  I  have  another  letter ;  one  for  M'sieu' 
Roussillon ;  it  came  by  the  boat  too.  I  go  to  give  it  to 
Madame  Roussillon." 

Rene  de  Ronville  was  a  dark,  weather-stained  young 


A  Letter  from  Afar  23 

icllow,  neither  tall  nor  short,  wearing  buckskin  mocca 
sins,  trousers  and  tunic.  His  eyes  were  dark  brown, 
keen,  quick-moving,  set  well  under  heavy  brows.  A 
razor  had  probably  never  touched  his  face,  and  his  thin, 
curly  beard  crinkled  over  his  strongly  turned  cheeks 
and  chin,  while  his  moustaches  sprang  out  quite  fiercely 
above  his  full-lipped,  almost  sensual  mouth.  He  looked 
wiry  and  active,  a  man  not  to  be  lightly  reckoned  with 
in  a  trial  of  bodily  strength  and  will  power. 

Father  Beret's  face  and  voice  changed  on  the  in 
stant.  He  laughed  dryly  and  said,  with  a  sly  gleam  in 
his  eyes : 

"You  could  spend  the  evening  pleasantly  with 
Madame  Rousillon  and  Jean.  Jean,  you  know,  is  a 
very  amusing  fellow." 

Rene  brought  forth  the  letter  of  which  he  had 
spoken  and  held  it  up  before  Father  Beret's  face. 

"Maybe  you  think  I  haven't  any  letter  for  M'sieu' 
Roussillon,"  he  blurted ;  "and  maybe  you  are  quite  cer 
tain  that  I  am  not  going  to  the  house  to  take  the  letter." 

"Monsieur  Roussillon  is  absent,  you  know,"  Father 
Beret  suggested.  "But  cherry  pies  are  just  as  good 
while  he's  gone  as  when  he's  at  home,  and  I  happen  to 
know  that  there  are  some  particularly  delicious  ones  in 
the  pantry  of  Madame  Roussillon.  Mademoiselle  Alice 
gave  me  a  juicy  sample ;  but  then  I  dare  say  you  do  not 
care  to  have  your  pie  served  by  her  hand.  It  would 
interfere  with  your  appetite ;  eh,  my  son  ?" 

Rene  turned  short  about  wagging  his  head  and 
laughing,  and  so  with  his  back  to  the  priest  he  strode 


24  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

away  along  the  wet  pith  leading  to  the  Roussillou 
place. 

Father  Beret  gazed  after  him,  his  face  relaxing  to 
a  serious  expression  in  which  a  trace  of  sadness  and 
gloom  spread  like  an  elusive  twilight.  He  took  out  his 
letter,  but  did  not  glance  at  it,  simply  holding  it  tightly 
gripped  in  his  sinewy  right  hand.  Then  his  old  eyes 
stared  vacantly,  as  eyes  do  when  their  sight  is  cast 
back  many,  many  years  into  the  past.  The  missive  was 
from  beyond  the  sea — he  knew  the  handwriting — a 
waft  of  the  flowers  of  Avignon  seemed  to  rise  out  of  it, 
as  if  by  the  pressure  of  his  grasp. 

A  stoop-shouldered,  burly  man  went  by,  leading  a 
pair  of  goats,  a  kid  following.  He  was  making  haste 
excitedly,  keeping  the  goats  at  a  lively  trot. 

"Bon  jour,  Pere  Beret,"  he  flung  out  breezily,  and 
walked  rapidly  on. 

"Ah,  ah;  his  mind  is  busy  with  the  newly  arrived 
cargo,"  thought  the  old  priest,  returning  the  salutation ; 
"his  throat  aches  for  the  liquor, — the  poor  man." 

Then  he  read  again  the  letter's  superscription  and 
made  a  faltering  move,  as  if  to  break  the  seal.  His 
hands  trembled  violently,  his  face  looked  gray  and 
drawn. 

"Come  on,  you  brutes,"  cried  the  receding  man} 
jerking  the  thongs  of  skin  by  which  he  led  the  goats. 

Father  Beret  rose  and  turned  into  his  damp  little 
hut,  where  the  light  was  dim  on  the  crucifix  hanging 
opposite  the  door  against  the  clay-daubed  wall.  It  was 
a  bare,  unsightly,  clammy  room;  a  rude  bed  on  one 
side,  a  shelf  for  table  and  two  or  three  wooden  stools 


A  Letter  from  Afar  25 

constituting  the  furniture,  while  the  uneven  puncheons 
of  the  floor  wabbled  and  clattered  under  the  priest's 
feet. 

An  unopened  letter  is  always  a  mysterious  thing. 
We  who  receive  three  or  four  mails  every  day,  scan 
each  little  paper  square  with  a  speculative  eye.  Most  of 
us  know  what  sweet  uncertainty  hangs  on  the  opening 
of  envelopes  whose  contents  may  be  almost  anything 
except  something  important,  and  what  a  vague  yet 
delicious  thrill  comes  with  the  snip  of  the  paper  knife ; 
but  if  we  be  in  a  foreign  land  and  long  years  absent 
from  home,  then  is  a  letter  subtly  powerful  to  move  us, 
even  more  before  it  is  opened  than  after  it  is  read. 

It  had  been  many  years  since  a  letter  from  home 
had  come  to  Father  Beret.  The  last,  before  the  one  now 
in  hand,  had  made  him  ill  of  nostalgia,  fairly  shaking 
his  iron  determination  never  to  quit  for  a  moment  his 
life  work  as  a  missionary.  Ever  since  that  day  he  had 
found  it  harder  to  meet  the  many  and  stern  demands 
of  a  most  difficult  and  exacting  duty.  Now  the  mere 
touch  of  the  paper  in  his  hand  gave  him  a  sense  of  re 
turning  weakness,  dissatisfaction,  and  longing.  The 
home  of  his  boyhood,  the  rushing  of  the  Rhone,  a  seat 
in  a  shady  nook  of  the  garden,  Madeline,  his  sister, 
prattling  beside  him,  and  his  mother  singing  some 
where  about  the  house — it  all  came  back  and  went  over 
him  and  through  him,  making  his  heart  sink  strangely, 
while  another  voice,  the  sweetest  ever  heard — but  she 
was  ineffable  and  her  memory  a  forbidden  fragrance. 

Father  Beret  tottered  across  the  forlorn  little  room 
and  knelt  before  the  crucifix  holding  his  clasped  hands 


26  Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

high,  the  letter  pressed  between  them.  His  lips  moved 
in  prayer,  but  made  no  sound ;  his  whole  frame  shook 
violently. 

It  would  be  unpardonable  desecration  to  enter  the 
.chamber  of  Father  Beret's  soul  and  look  upon  his 
sacred  and  secret  trouble ;  nor  must  we  even  speculate 
as  to  its  particulars.  The  good  old  man  writhed  and 
wrestled  before  the  cross  for  a  long  time,  until  at  last 
he  seemed  to  receive  the  calmness  and  strength  he 
prayed  for  so  fervently ;  then  he  rose,  tore  the  letter  into 
pieces  so  small  that  not  a  word  remained  whole,  and 
squeezed  them  so  firmly  together  that  they  were  com 
pressed  into  a  tiny,  solid  ball,  which  he  let  fall  through 
a  crack  between  the  floor  puncheons.  After  waiting 
twenty  years  for  that  letter,  hungry  as  his  heart  was, 
he  did  not  even  open  it  when  at  last  it  arrived.  He 
would  never  know  what  message  it  bore.  The  link 
between  him  and  the  old  sweet  days  was  broken  for 
ever.  Now  with  God's  help  he  could  do  his  work  to 
the  end. 

He  went  and  stood  in  his  doorway,  leaning  against 
the  side.  Was  it  a  mere  coincidence  that  the  meadow- 
lark  flew  up  just  then  from  its  grass-tuft,  and  came  to 
the  roof's  comb  overhead,  where  it  lit  with  a  light  yet 
audible  stroke  of  its  feet  and  began  fluting  its  tender, 
lonesome-sounding  strain  ?  If  Father  Beret  heard  it  he 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition ;  very  likely  he  was  think 
ing  about  the  cargo  of  liquor  and  how  he  could  best 
counteract  its  baleful  influence.  He  looked  toward  the 
"river  house,"  as  the  inhabitants  had  named  a  large 
shanty,  which  stood  on  a  bluff  of  the  Wabash  not  far 


A  Letter  Irom  Afar  27 

from  where  the  road-bridge  at  present  crosses,  and  saw 
men  gathering  there. 

Meantime  Rene  de  Ronville  had  delivered  Madame 
Roussillon's  letter  with  due  promptness.  Of  course 
such  a  service  demanded  pie  and  claret.  What  still  bet 
ter  pleased  him,  Alice  chose  to  be  more  amiable  than 
was  usually  her  custom  when  he  called.  They  sat  to 
gether  in  the  main  room  of  the  house  where  M.  Rotts- 
sillon  kept  his  books,  his  curiosities  of  Indian  manu 
facture  collected  here  and  there,  and  his  surplus 
firearms,  swords,  pistols,  and  knives,  ranged  not  ttn- 
pleasingly  around  the  walls. 

Of  course,  along  with  the  letter,  Rene  bore  the  news, 
so  interesting  to  himself,  of  the  boat's  tempting  cargo 
just  discharged  at  the  river  house.  Alice  understood 
her  friend's  danger — felt  it  in  the  intense  enthusiasm 
of  hi?  voice  and  manner.  She  had  once  seen  the  men 
carousing  on  a  similar  occasion  when  she  was  but  a 
child,  and  the  impression  then  made  still  remained  in 
her  memory.  Instinctively  she  resolved  to  hold  Rene 
by  one  means  or  another  away  from  the  river  house  if 
possible.  So  she  managed  to  keep  him  occupied  eating 
pie,  sipping  watered  claret  and  chatting  until  night 
came  on  and  Madame  Roussillon  brought  in  a  lamp. 
Then  he  hurridly  snatched  his  cap  from  the  floor  beside 
him  and  got  up  to  go. 

"Come  and  look  at  my  handiwork,"  Alice  quickly 
said ;  "my  shelf  of  pies,  I  mean."  She  led  him  to  the 
pantry,  where  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  cherry  pates  were 
ranged  in  order.  "I  made  every  one  of  them  this 
morning  and  baked  them ;  had  them  all  out  of  the  oven 


28         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

before  the  rain  came  up.  Don't  you  think  me  a  wonder 
of  cleverness  and  industry?  Father  Beret  was  polite 
enough  to  flatter  me;  but  you — you  just  eat  what  you 
want  and  say  nothing!  You  are  not  polite,  Monsieur 
Rene  de  Ronville." 

"I've  been  showing  you  what  I  thought  of  your 
.goodies,"  said  Rene;  "eating's  better  than  talking,  you 
know ;  so  I'll  just  take  one  more,"  and  he  helped  him 
self.  "Isn't  that  compliment  enough  ?" 

"A  few  such  would  make  me  another  hot  day's 
work,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "Pretty  talk  would  be 
cheaper  and  more  satisfactory  in  the  long  run.  Even 
the  flour  in  these  pates  I  ground  with  my  own  hand  in 
an  Indian  mortar.  That  was  hard  work  too." 

By  this  time  Rene  had  forgotten  the  river  house  and 
the  liquor.  With  softening  eyes  he  gazed  at  Alice's 
rounded  cheeks  and  sheeny  hair  over  which  the  light 
from  the  curious  earthen  lamp  she  bore  in  her  hand 
flickered  most  effectively.  He  loved  her  madly;  but 
his  fear  of  her  was  more  powerful  than  his  love.  She 
gave  him  no  opportunity  to  speak  what  he  felt,  having 
ever  ready  a  quick,  bright  change  of  mood  and  manner 
when  she  saw  him  plucking  up  courage  to  address  her 
in  a  sentimental  way.  Their  relations  had  long  been 
somewhat  familiar,  which  was  but  natural,  considering 
their  youth  and  the  circumstances  of  their  daily  life; 
but  Alice  somehow  had  kept  a  certain  distance  open 
between  them,  so  that  very  warm  friendship  could  not 
suddenly  resolve  itself  into  a  troublesome  passion  on 
Rene's  part. 

We  need  not  attempt  to  analyze  a  young  girl's  feel- 


A  Letter  from  Afar  29 

ing  and  motives  in  such  a  case ;  what  she  does  and  what 
she  thinks  are  mysteries  even  to  her  own  understand 
ing.  The  influence  most  potent  in  shaping  the  rudi 
mentary  character  of  Alice  Tarleton  (called  Roussil- 
lon)  had  been  only  such  as  a  lonely  frontier  post  could 
generate.  Her  associations  with  men  and  women  had, 
with  few  exceptions,  been  unprofitable  in  an  educa 
tional  way,  while  her  reading  in  M.  Roussillon's  little 
library  could  not  have  given  her  any  practical  knowl 
edge  of  manners  and  life. 

She  was  fond  of  Rene  de  Ronville,  and  it  would  have 
been  quite  in  accordance  with  the  law  of  ordinary 
human  forces,  indeed  almost  the  inevitable  thing,  for 
her  to  love  and  marry  him  in  the  fullness  of  time ;  but 
her  imagination  was  outgrowing  her  surroundings. 
Books  had  given  her  a  world  of  romance  wherein  she 
moved  at  will,  meeting  a  class  of  people  far  different 
from  those  who  actually  shared  her  experiences.  Her 
day-dreams  and  her  night-dreams  partook  much  more 
of  what  she  had  read  and  imagined  than  of  what  she 
had  seen  and  heard  in  the  raw  little  world  around  her. 

Her  affection  for  Rene  was  interfered  with  by  her 
large  admiration  for  the  heroic,  masterful  aad  mag 
netic  knights  who  charged  through  the  romances  of  the 
Roussillon  collection.  For  although  Rene  was  unques 
tionably  brave  and  more  than  passably  handsome,  he 
had  no  armor,  no  war-horse,  no  shining  lance  and  em 
bossed  shield — the  difference,  indeed,  was  great. 

Those  who  love  to  contend  against  the  fatal  drift  of 
our  age  toward  over-education  could  find  in  Alice  Tar- 
kton,  foster  daughter  of  Gaspard  Roussillon,  a  primi- 


30  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

tive  example,  an  elementary  case  in  point  What  couhi 
her  book  education  do  but  set  up  stumbling  blocks  in 
the  path  of  happiness  ?  She  was  learning  to  prefer  the 
ideal  to  the  real.  Her  soul  was  developing  itself  as 
best  it  could  for  the  enjoyment  of  conditions  and  things 
absolutely  foreign  to  the  possibilities  of  her  lot  in  life. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  light  and  heat  of  imagination, 
shining  out  through  Alice's  face,  which  gave  her 
beauty  such  a  fascinating  power.  Rene  saw  it  and  felt 
its  electrical  stroke  send  a  sweet  shiver  through  his 
heart,  while  he  stood  before  her. 

"You  are  very  beautiful  to-night,  Alice,"  he  presently 
said,  with  a  suddenness  which  took  even  her  alertness 
by  surprise.  A  flush  rose  to  his  dark  face  and  imme 
diately  gave  way  to  a  grayish  pallor.  His  heart  came 
near  stopping  on  the  instant,  he  was  so  shocked  by  his 
own  daring ;  but  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  hair,  stroking  it 
softly. 

Just  a  moment  she  was  at  a  loss,  looking  a  trifle  em 
barrassed,  then  with  a  merry  laugh  she  stepped  aside 
and  said: 

"That  sounds  better,  Monsieur  Rene  de  Ronville 
much  better ;  you  will  be  as  polite  as  Father  Beret  aftei 
a  little  more  training." 

She  slipped  past  him  while  speaking  and  made  her 
way  back  again  to  the  main  room,  whence  she  called 
to  him: 

"Come  here,  I've  something  to  show  you.** 

He  obeyed,  a  sheepish  trace  on  his  countenance 
betraying  his  self-consciousness. 

When  he  came  near  Alice  she  was  taking  from  its 


A  Letter  from  Afar  31 

buckhorn  hook  on  the  wall  a  rapier,  one  of  a  beautiful 
pair  hanging  side  by  side. 

"Papa  Roussillon  gave  me  these,"  she  said  with  great 
animation.  "He  bought  them  of  an  Indian  who  had 
kept  them  a  long  time ;  where  he  came  across  them  he 
would  not  tell ;  but  look  how  beautiful !  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  fine?" 

Guard  and  hilt  were  of  silver ;  the  blade,  although 
somewhat  corroded,  still  showed  the  fine  wavy  lines  of 
Damascus  steel  and  traces  of  delicate  engraving,  while 
in  the  end  of  the  hilt  was  set  a  large  oval  turquoise. 

"A  very  queer  present  to  give  a  girl,"  said  Rene; 
"what  can  you  do  with  them?" 

A  captivating  flash  of  playfulness  came  into  her  face 
and  she  sprang  backward,  giving  the  sword  a  semi 
circular  turn  with  her  wrist.  The  blade  sent  forth  a 
keen  hiss  as  it  cut  the  air  close,  very  close  to  Rene's 
nose.  He  jerked  his  head  and  flung  up  his  hand. 

She  laughed  merrily,  standing  beautifully  poised  be 
fore  him,  the  rapier's  point  slightly  elevated.  Her 
short  skirt  left  her  feet  and  ankles  free  to  show  their 
graceful  proportions  and  the  perfect  pose  in  which  they 
held  her  supple  body. 

"You  see  what  I  can  do  with  the  colechenutrde,  eh, 
Monsieur  Rene  de  Ronville!"  she  exclaimed,  giving 
him  a  smile  which  fairly  blinded  him.  "Notice  how 
very  near  to  your  neck  I  can  thrust  and  yet  not  touch 
it.  Now !" 

She  darted  the  keen  point  under  his  chin  and  drew 
it  away  so  quickly  that  the  stroke  was  like  a  glint  of 
sunlight. 


32  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  as  a  nice  and  accurate 
piece  of  skill?" 

She  again  resumed  her  pose,  the  right  foot  advanced, 
the  left  arm  well  back,  her  lissome,  finely  developed 
body  leaning  slightly  forward. 

Rene's  hands  were  up  before  his  face  in  a  defensive 
position,  palms  outward. 

Just  then  a  chorus  of  men's  voices  sounded  in  the 
distance.  The  river  house  was  beginning  its  carousal 
with  a  song.  Alice  let  fall  her  sword's  point  and  lis 
tened. 

Rene  looked  about  for  his  cap. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said. 

Another  and  louder  swish  of  the  rapier  made  him 
pirouette  and  dodge  again  with  great  energy. 

"Don't,"  he  cried,  "that's  dangerous;  you'll  put  out 
my  eyes ;  I  never  saw  such  a  girl !" 

She  laughed  at  him  and  kept  on  whipping  the  air 
dangerously  near  his  eyes,  until  she  had  driven  him 
backward  as  far  as  he  could  squeeze  himself  into  a 
corner  of  the  room. 

Madame  Roussillon  came  to  the  door  from  the  kitch 
en  and  stood  looking  in  and  laughing,  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips.  By  this  time  the  rapier  was  making  a 
criss-cross  pattern  of  flashing  lines  close  to  the  young 
man's  head  while  Alice,  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  exer 
cise,  seemed  to  concentrate  all  the  glowing  rays  of  her 
beauty  in  her  face,  her  eyes  dancing  merrily. 

"Quit,  now,  Alice,"  he  begged,  half  in  fun  and  half 
in  abject  fear;  "please  quit — I  surrender!" 

She  thrust  to  the  wall  on  either  side  of  him,  then 


A  Letter  from  Afar  33 

springing  lightly  backward  a  pace,  stood  at  guard.  Her 
thick  yellow  hair  had  fallen  over  her  neck  and  should 
ers  in  a  loose  wavy  mass,  out  of  which  her  face  beamed 
with  a  bewitching  effect  upon  her  captive. 

Rene,  glad  enough  to  have  a  cessation  of  his  peril, 
stood  laughing  dryly ;  but  the  singing  down  at  the  river 
house  was  swelling  louder  and  he  made  another  move 
ment  to  go. 

"You  surrendered,  you  remember,"  cried  Alice,  re 
newing  the  sword-play;  "sit  down  on  the  chair  there 
and  make  yourself  comfortable.  You  are  not  going 
down  yonder  to-night ;  you  are  going  to  stay  here  and 
talk  with  me  and  Mother  Roussillon;  we  are  lonesome 
and  you  are  good  company." 

A  shot  rang  out  keen  and  clear ;  there  was  a  sudden 
tumult  that  broke  up  the  distant  singing;  and  pres 
ently  more  firing  at  varying  intervals  cut  the  night  air 
from  the  direction  of  the  river. 

Jean,  the  hunchback,  came  in  to  say  that  there  was  a 
row  of  some  sort ;  he  had  seen  men  running  across  the 
common  as  if  in  pursuit  of  a  fugitive;  but  the  moon 
light  was  so'  dim  that  he  could  not  be  sure  what  it  all 
meant. 

Rene  picked  up  his  cap  and  bolted  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III 

.THE  RAPE  OF   THE  DEMIJOHN 

The  row  down  at  the  river  house  was  more  noise 
than  fight,  so  far  as  results  seemed  to  indicate.  It  was 
all  about  a  small  dame  Jeanne  of  fine  brandy,  which  an 
Indian  by  the  name  of  Long-Hair  had  seized  and  run  off 
with  at  the  height  of  the  carousal.  He  must  have  been 
soberer  than  his  pursuers,  or  naturally  fleeter ;  for  not 
one  of  them  could  catch  him,  or  even  keep  long  in  sight 
of  him.  Some  pistols  were  emptied  while  the  race  was 
on,  and  two  or  three  of  the  men  swore  roundly  to  hav 
ing  seen  Long-Hair  jump  side  wise  and  stagger,  as  if 
one  of  the  shots  had  taken  effect.  But,  although  the 
moon  was  shining,  he  someway  disappeared,  they  could 
not  understand  just  how,  far  down  beside  the  river 
below  the  fort  and  the  church. 

It  was  not  a  very  uncommon  thing  for  an  Indian  to 
steal  what  he  wanted,  and  in  most  cases  light  punish 
ment  followed  conviction ;  but  it  was  felt  to  be  a  capi 
tal  offense  for  an  Indian  or  anybody  else  to  rape  a 
demijohn  of  fine  brandy,  especially  one  sent  as  a  pres 
ent,  by  a  friend  in  New  Orleans,  to  Lieutenant  Gov 
ernor  Abbott,  who  had  until  recently  been  the  com 
mandant  of  the  post.  Every  man  at  the  river  house  rec 
ognized  and  resented  the  enormity  of  Long-Hair's 
crime  and  each  was,  for  the  moment,  ready  to  be  his 
judge  and  his  executioner.  He  had  broken  at  once 
every  rule  of  frontier  etiquette  and  every  bond  of  syra- 

Ob 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        35 

pathy.  Nor  was  Long-Hair  ignorant  of  the  danger 
involved  in  his  daring  enterprise.  He  had  beforehand 
carefully  and  stolidly  weighed  all  the  conditions,  and 
true  to  his  Indian  nature,  had  concluded  that  a  little 
wicker  covered  bottle  of  brandy  was  well  worth  the 
risk  of  his  life.  So  he  had  put  himself  in  condition  for 
a  great  race  by  slipping  out  and  getting  rid  of  his 
weapons  and  all  surplus  weight  of  clothes. 

This  incident  brought  the  drinking  bout  at  the  river 
house  to  a  sudden  end ;  but  nothing  further  came  of  it 
that  night,  and  no  record  of  it  would  be  found  in  these 
pages,  but  for  the  fact  that  Long-Hair  afterwards  be 
came  an  important  character  in  the  stirring  historical 
drama  which  had  old  Vincennes  for  its  center  of 
energy. 

Rene  de  Ronville  probably  felt  himself  in  bad  luck 
when  he  arrived  at  the  river  house  just  too  late  to  share 
in  the  liquor  or  to  join  in  chasing  the  bold  thief.  He  lis 
tened  with  interest,  however,  to  the  story  of  Long- 
Hair's  capture  of  the  commandant's  demijohn  and 
could  not  refrain  from  saying  that  if  he  had  been  pres 
ent  there  would  have  been  a  quite  different  result. 

"I  would  have  shot  him  before  he  got  to  that  door," 
he  said,  drawing  his  heavy  flint-lock  pistol  and  going 
through  the  motions  of  one  aiming  quickly  and  firing. 
Indeed,  so  vigorously  in  earnest  was  he  with  the  pan 
tomime,  that  he  actually  did  fire,  unintentionally  of 
course, — the  ball  burying  itself  in  the  door-jamb. 

He  was  laughed  at  by  those  present  for  being  more 
excited  than  they  who  witnessed  the  whole  thing. 
One  of  them,  a  leatherv-faced  and  grizzled  old  sinner, 


36  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

leered  at  him  contemptuously  and  said  in  queer  French, 
with  a  curious  accent  caught  from  long  use  of  back 
woods  English : 

"Listen  how  the  boy  brags!  Ye  might  think,  to 
hear  Rene  talk,  that  he  actually  amounted  to  a  big 
pile." 

This  personage  was  known  to  every  soul  in  Vin 
cennes  as  Oncle  Jazon,  and  when  Oncle  Jazon  spoke 
the  whole  town  felt  bound  to  listen. 

"An'  how  well  he  shoots,  too,"  he  added  with  an 
intolerable  wink ;  "aimed  at  the  door  and  hit  the  post. 
Certainly  Long-Hair  would  have  been  in  great  danger ! 
O  yes,  he'd  'ave  killed  Long-Hair  at  the  first  shot, 
wouldn't  he  though !" 

Oncle  Jazon  had  the  air  of  a  large  man,  but  the 
stature  of  a  small  one ;  in  fact  he  was  shriveled  bodily 
to  a  degree  which  suggested  comparison  with  a  sun- 
dried  wisp  of  hickory  bark ;  and  when  he  chuckled,  as 
he  was  now  doing,  his  mouth  puckered  itself  until  it 
looked  like  a  scar  on  his  face.  From  cap  to  moccasins 
he  had  every  mark  significant  of  a  desperate  character ; 
and  yet  there  was  about  him  something  that  instantly 
commanded  the  confidence  of  rough  men, — the  look  of 
self -sufficiency  and  superior  capability  always  to  be 
found  in  connection  with  immense  will  power.  His 
sixty  years  of  exposure,  hardship,  and  danger  seemed 
to  have  but  toughened  his  physique  and  strengthened 
his  vitality.  Out  of  his  small  hazel  eyes  gleamed  a 
light  as  keen  as  ice. 

"All  right,  Oncle  Jazon,"  said  Rene  laughing  and 
blowing  the  smoke  out  of  his  pistol ;  "  'twas  you  all  tt»« 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        37 

same  who  let  Long-Hair  trot  off  with  the  Governor's 
brandy,  not  I.  If  you  could  have  hit  even  a  door-post 
it  might  have  been  better." 

Oncle  Jazon  took  off  his  cap  and  looked  down  into 
it  in  a  way  he  had  when  about  to  say  something  final. 

"Ventrebleu!  I  did  not  shoot  at  Long-Hair  at  all," 
he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "because  the  scoundrel  was 
unarmed.  He  didn't  have  on  even  a  knife,  and  he  was 
havin'  enough  to  do  dodgin'  the  bullets  that  the  rest 
of  'em  were  plumpin'  at  'im  without  any  compliments 
from  me  to  bother  'im  more." 

"Well,"  Rene  replied,  turning  away  with  a  laugh,  "if 
I'd  been  scalped  by  the  Indians,  as  you  have,  I  don't 
think  there  would  be  any  particular  reason  why  I 
should  wait  for  an  Indian  thief  to  go  and  arm  himself 
before  I  accepted  him  as  a  target." 

Oncle  Jazon  lifted  a  hand  involuntarily  and  rubbed 
his  scalpless  crown ;  then  he  chuckled  with  a  grotesque 
grimace  as  if  the  recollection  of  having  his  head 
skinned  were  the  funniest  thing  imaginable. 

"When  you've  killed  as  many  of  'em  as  Oncle  Jazon 
has,"  remarked  a  bystander  to  Rene,  "you'll  not  be  so 
hungry  for  blood,  maybe." 

"Especially  after  ye've  took  fifty-nine  scalps  to  pay 
for  yer  one,"  added  Oncle  Jazon,  replacing  his  cap 
over  the  hairless  area  of  his  crown. 

The  men  who  had  been  chasing  Long-Hair  presently 
came  straggling  back  with  their  stories — each  had  a 
distinct  one — of  how  the  fugitive  escaped.  They  were 
wild  looking  fellows,  most  of  them  somewhat  intoxi 
cated,  all  profusely  liberal  with  their  stock  of  pictur- 


387825 


38  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

esque  profanity.  They  represented  the  roughest  ele 
ment  of  the  well-nigh  lawless  post. 

"I'm  positive  that  he's  wounded,"  said  one.  "Jacques 
and  I  shot  at  him  together,  so  that  our  pistols 
sounded  just  as  if  only  one  had  been  fired — bang!  that 
way — and  he  leaped  sideways  for  all  the  world  like  a 
bird  with  a  broken  leg.  I  thought  he'd  fall;  but  ve! 
he  ran  faster'n  ever,  and  all  at  once  he  was  gone ;  just 
disappeared." 

"Well,  to-morrow  we'll  get  him,"  said  another.  "You 
and  I  and  Jacques,  we'll  take  up  his  trail,  the  thief, 
and  follow  him  till  we  find  him.  He  can't  get  off  so 
easy." 

"I  don't  know  so  well  about  that;"  said  another; 
"it's  Long-Hair,  you  must  remember,  and  Long-Hair 
is  no  common  buck  that  just  anybody  can  find  asleep. 
You  know  what  Long-Hair  is.  Nobody's  ever  got 
even  with  'im  yet.  That's  so,  ain't  it  ?  Just  ask  Oncle 
Jazon,  if  you  don't  believe  it !" 

The  next  morning  Long-Hair  was  tracked  to  the 
river's  edge.  He  had  been  wounded,  but  whether 
seriously  or  not  could  only  be  conjectured.  A  sprinkle 
of  blood,  here  and  there  quite  a  dash  of  it,  reddened  the 
grass  and  clumps  of  weeds  he  had  run  through,  and 
ended  close  to  the  water  into  which  it  looked  as  if  he 
had  plunged  with  a  view  to  baffling  pursuit.  Indeed 
pursuit  was  baffled.  No  further  trace  could  be  found, 
by  which  to  follow  the  cunning  fugitive.  Some  of  the 
men  consoled  themselves  by  saying,  without  believing, 
that  Long-Hair  was  probably  lying  drowned  at  the 
bottom  of  the  river. 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        39 

"Pus  du  tout,"  observed  Oncle  Jazon,  his  short  pipe 
askew  far  over  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  "not  a  bit  of 
it  is  that  Indian  drowned.  He's  jes'  as  live  as  a  fat 
cat  this  minute,  and  as  drunk  as  the  devil.  He'll  get 
some  o'  yer  scalps  yet  after  he's  guzzled  all  that 
brandy  and  slep'  a  week," 

It  finally  transpired  that  Oncle  Jazon  was  partly 
right  and  partly  wrong.  Long-Hair  was  alive,  even  as 
a  fat  cat,  perhaps ;  but  not  drunk,  for  in  trying  to  swim 
ivith  the  rotund  little  dame  Jeanne  under  his  arm  he 
lost  hold  of  it  and  it  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  Wabash, 
where  it  may  be  lying  at  this  moment  patiently  waiting 
for  some  one  to  fish  it  out  of  its  bed  deep  in  the  sand 
and  mud,  and  break  the  ancient  wax  from  its  neck ! 

Rene  de  Ronville,  after  the  chase  of  Long-Hair  had 
been  given  over,  went  to  tell  Father  Beret  what  had 
happened,  and  finding  the  priest's  hut  empty  turned  in 
to  the  path  leading  to  the  Roussillon  place,  which  was 
at  the  head  of  a  narrow  street  laid  out  in  a  direction 
at  right  angles  to  the  river's  course.  He  passed  two  or 
three  diminutive  cabins,  all  as  much  alike  as  bee-hives. 
Each  had  its  squat  veranda  and  thatched  or  clap- 
boarded  roof  held  in  place  by  weight-poles  ranged  in 
roughly  parallel  rows,  and  each  had  the  face  of  the  wall 
under  its  veranda  neatly  daubed  with  a  grayish  stucco 
made  of  mud  and  lime.  You  may  see  such  houses  to 
day  in  some  remote  parts  of  the  Creole  country  of 
Louisiana. 

As  Rene  passed  along  he  spoke  with  a  gay  French 
freedom  to  the  dames  and  lasses  who  chanced  to  be  vis 
ible.  His  air  would  be  regarded  as  violently  brigand- 


40  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ish  in  our  day ;  we  might  even  go  so  far  as  to  think  his 
whole  appearance  comical.  His  jaunty  cap  with  a  tail 
that  wagged  as  he  walked,  his  short  trousers  and  leg- 
gins  of  buckskin,  and  his  loose  shirt-like  tunic,  drawn 
in  at  the  waist  with  a  broad  belt,  gave  his  strong  figure 
just  the  dash  of  wildness  suited  to  the  armament  with 
which  it  was  weighted.  A  heavy  gun  lay  in  the  hollow 
of  his  shoulder  under  which  hung  an  otter-skin  bullet- 
pouch  with  its  clear  powder-horn  and  white  bone 
charger.  In  his  belt  were  two  huge  flint-lock  pistols 
and  a  long  case-knife. 

"Bon  four,  Ma'm'selle  Adrienne,"  he  cheerily  called, 
waving  his  free  hand  in  greeting  to  a  small,  dark  lass 
standing  on  the  step  of  a  veranda  and  indolently  swing 
ing  a  broom.  "Comment  allez-vous  auj ourd'hui?" 

"J'm'porte  tres  bien,  merci,  Mo'sieu  Rene,"  was  the 
quick  response ;  "et  vous?" 

"Oh,  I'm  as  lively  as  a  cricket." 

"Going  a  hunting?" 

"No,  just  up  here  a  little  way — just  on  business — 
up  to  Mo'sieu  Roussillon's  for  a  moment." 

"Yes,"  the  girl  responded  in  a  tone  indicative  of 
something  very  like  spleen,  "yes,  undoubtedly,  Mo'sieu 
de  Ronville ;  your  business  there  seems  quite  pressing 
of  late.  I  have  noticed  your  industrious  application  to 
that  business." 

"Ta-ta,  little  one,"  he  wheedled,  lowering  his  voice ; 
"you  mustn't  go  to  making  bug-bears  out  of  nothing." 

"Bug-bears!"  she  retorted,  "you  go  on  about  your 
business  and  I'll  attend  to  mine,"  and  she  flirted  into 
the  house. 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        41 

Rene  laughed  under  his  breath,  standing  a  moment 
as  if  expecting  her  to  come  out  again ;  but  she  did  not, 
and  he  resumed  his  walk  singing  softly — 

"Elle  a  les  joues  vermeilles,  vermeilles, 
Ma  belle,  ma  belle  petite." 

But  ten  to  one  he  was  not  thinking  of  Madamoiselle 
Adrienne  Bourcier.  His  mind,  however,  must  have 
been  absorbingly  occupied;  for  in  the  straight,  open 
way  he  met  Father  Beret  and  did  not  see  him  until  he 
came  near  bumping  against  the  old  man,  who  stepped 
aside  with  astonishing  agility  and  said — 

"'Dieu  vous  benisse,  mon  fits;  but  what  is  your  great 
hurry — where  can  you  be  going  in  such  happy  haste?" 

Rene  did  not  stop  to  parley  with  the  priest.  He 
flung  some  phrase  of  pleasant  greeting  back  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  trudged  on,  his  heart  beginning  a  tattoo 
against  his  ribs  when  the  Roussillon  place  came  in 
sight,  and  he  took  hold  of  his  mustache  to  pull  it,  as 
some  men  must  do  in  moments  of  nervousness  and 
bash  fulness.  If  sounds  ever  have  color,  the  humming 
in  his  ears  was  of  a  rosy  hue ;  if  thoughts  ever  exhale 
fragrance,  his  brain  overflowed  with  the  sweets  of 
violet  and  heliotrope. 

He  had  in  mind  what  he  was  going  to  say  when 
Alice  and  he  should  be  alone  together.  It  was  a  pretty 
speech,  he  thought ;  indeed  a  very  thrilling  little  speech, 
by  the  way  it  stirred  his  own  nerve-centers  as  he 
conned  it  over. 


42  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Madame  Roussillon  met  him  at  the  door  in  not  a 
very  good  humor. 

"Is  Mademoiselle  Alice  here?"  he  ventured  to  de 
mand. 

"Alice?  no,  she's  not  here;  she's  never  here  just 
when  I  want  her  most.  Via  le  picbois  et  la  grive — 
see  the  woodpecker  and  the  robin — eating  the  cherries, 
eating  every  one  of  them,  and  that  girl  running  off 
somewhere  instead  of  staying  here  and  picking  them," 
she  railed  in  answer  to  the  young  man's  polite  inquiry. 
"I  haven't  seen  her  these  four  hours,  neither  her  nor 
that  rascally  hunchback,  Jean.  They're  up  to  some 
mischief,  I'll  be  bound!" 

Madame  Roussillon  puffed  audibly  between  phrases ; 
but  she  suddenly  became  very  mild  when  relieved  of 
her  tirade. 

"Mais  entres,"  she  added  in  a  pleasant  tone,  "come 
in  and  tell  me  the  news." 

Rene's  disappointment  rushed  into  his  face,  but  he 
managed  to  laugh  it  aside. 

"Father  Beret  has  just  been  telling  me,"  said  Ma 
dame  Roussillon,  "that  our  friend  Long-Hair  made 
some  trouble  last  night.  How  about  it?" 

Rene  told  her  what  he  knew  and  added  that  Long- 
Hair  would  probably  never  be  seen  again. 

"He  was  shot,  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  went  on,  "and  is 
now  being  nibbled  by  fish  and  turtles.  We  tracked 
him  by  his  blood  to  where  he  jumped  into  the  Wabash. 
He  never  came  out." 

Strangely  enough  it  happened  that,  at  the  very  time 
of  this  chat  between  Madame  Roussillon  and  Rene, 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn       43 

Alice  was  bandaging  Long-Hair's  wounded  leg  with 
strips  of  her  apron.  It  was  under  some  willows  which 
overhung  the  bank  of  a  narrow  and  shallow  lagoon  or 
slough,  which  in  those  days  extended  a  mile  or  two 
back  into  the  country  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river. 
Alice  and  Jean  went  over  in  a  pirogue  to  see  if  the 
water  lilies,  haunting  a  pond  there,  were  yet  beginning 
to  bloom.  They  landed  at  a  convenient  spot  some 
distance  up  the  little  lagoon,  made  the  boat  fast  by 
dragging  its  prow  high  ashore,  and  were  on  the  point 
of  setting  out  across  a  neck  of  wet,  grassy  land  to  the 
pond,  when  a  deep  grunt,  not  unlike  that  of  a  self- 
satisfied  pig,  attracted  them  to  the  willows,  where  they 
discovered  Long-Hair,  badly  wounded,  weltering  in 
some  black  mud. 

His  hiding-place  was  cunningly  chosen,  save  that  the 
mire  troubled  him,  letting  him  down  by  slow  degrees, 
and  threatening  to  engulf  him  bodily ;  and  he  was  now 
too  weak  to  extricate  himself.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
glared.  His  face  was  grimy,  his  hair  matted  with  mud. 
Alice,  although  brave  enough  and  quite  accustomed 
to  startling  experiences,  uttered  a  cry  when  she  saw 
those  snaky  eyes  glistening  so  savagely  amid  the  shad 
ows.  But  Jean  was  quick  to  recognize  Long-Hair; 
he  had  often  seen  him  about  town,  a  figure  not  to  be 
forgotten. 

"They've  been  hunting  him  everywhere,"  he  said  in 
a  half  whisper  to  Alice,  clutching  the  skirt  of  her 
dress.  "It's  Long-Hair,  the  Indian  who  stole  the 
brandy;  I  know  him." 

Alice  recoiled  a  pace  or  two. 


44  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Let's  go  back  and  tell  'em,"  Jean  added,  still  whis 
pering,  "they  want  to  kill  him ;  Oncie  Jazon  said  so. 
Come  on!" 

He  gave  her  dress  a  jerk;  but  she  did  not  move 
any  farther  back ;  she  was  looking  at  the  blood  oozing 
from  a  wound  in  the  Indian's  leg. 

"He  is  shot,  he  is  hurt,  Jean,  we  must  help  him," 
she  presently  said,  recovering  her  self-control,  yet  still 
pale.  "We  must  get  him  out  of  that  bad  place." 

Jean  caught  Alice's  merciful  spirit  with  sympathetic 
readiness,  and  showed  immediate  willingness  to  aid 
her. 

It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  do;  but  there  was  a  will 
and  of  course  a  way.  They  had  knives  with  which 
they  cut  willows  to  make  a  standing  place  on  the  mud. 
While  they  were  doing  this  they  spoke  friendly  words 
to  Long-Hair,  who  understood  French  a  little,  and  at 
last  they  got  hold  of  his  arms,  tugged,  rested,  tugged 
again,  and  finally  managed  to  help  him  to  a  dry  place, 
still  under  the  willows,  where  he  could  lie  more  at  ease. 
Jean  carried  water  in  his  cap  with  which  they  washed 
the  wound  and  the  stolid  savage  face.  Then  Alice 
tore  up  her  cotton  apron,  in  which  she  had  hoped  to 
bear  home  a  load  of  lilies,  and  with  the  strips  bound 
the  wound  very  neatly.  It  took  a  long  time,  during 
which  the  Indian  remained  silent  and  apparently  quite 
indifferent. 

Long-Hair  was  a  man  of  superior  physique,  tall, 
straight,  with  the  muscles  of  a  Vulcan ;  and  while  he 
lay  stretched  on  the  ground  half  clad  and  motionless, 
he  would  have  been  a  grand  model  for  an  heroic  figure 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        45 

ia  bronze.  Yet  from  every  lineament  there  came  a 
strange  repelling  influence,  like  that  from  a  snake. 
Alice  felt  almost  unbearable  disgust  while  doing  her 
merciful  task ;  but  she  bravely  persevered  until  it  was 
finished. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sun  would 
be  setting  before  they  could  reach  home. 

"We  must  hurry  back,  Jean,"  Alice  said,  turning  to 
depart.  "It  will  be  all  we  can  do  to  reach  the  other 
side  in  daylight.  I'm  thinking  that  they'll  be  out 
hunting  for  us  too,  if  we  don't  move  right  lively. 
Come." 

She  gave  the  Indian  another  glance  when  she  had 
taken  but  a  step.  He  grunted  and  held  up  something 
in  his  hand — something  that  shone  with  a  dull  yellow 
light.  It  was  a  small,  oval,  gold  locket  which  she  had 
always  worn  in  her  bosom.  She  sprang  and  snatched 
it  from  his  palm. 

"Thank  you,"  she  exclaimed,  smiling  gratefully. 
"I  am  so  glad  you  found  it." 

The  chain  by  which  the  locket  had  hung  was  broken, 
doubtless  by  some  movement  while  dragging  Long- 
Hair  out  of  the  mud,  and  the  lid  had  sprung  open, 
exposing  a  miniature  portrait  of  Alice,  painted  when 
she  was  a  little  child,  probably  not  two  years  old.  It 
was  a  sweet  baby  face,  archly  bright,  almost  sur 
rounded  with  a  fluff  of  golden  hair.  The  neck  and 
the  upper  line  of  the  plump  shoulders,  with  a  trace  of 
richly  delicate  lace  and  a  string  of  pearls,  gave  some 
how  a  suggestion  of  patrician  daintiness. 

Long-Hair  looked  keenly  into  Alice's  eyes,  whe» 


46  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

she  stooped  to  take  the  locket  from  his  hand,  but  said 
nothing. 

She  and  Jean  now  hurried  away,  and,  so  vigorously 
did  they  paddle  the  pirogue,  that  the  sky  was  yet  red 
in  the  west  when  they  reached  home  and  duly  received 
their  expected  scolding  from  Madame  Roussillon. 

Alice  sealed  Jean's  lips  as  to  their  adventure;  for 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  save  Long-Hair  if  pos 
sible,  and  she  felt  sure  that  the  only  way  to  do  it  would 
be  to  trust  no  one  but  Father  Beret. 

It  turned  out  that  Long-Hair's  wound  was  neither 
a  broken  bone  nor  a  cut  artery.  The  flesh  of  his  leg, 
midway  between  the  hip  and  the  knee,  was  pierced;, 
the  bullet  had  bored  a  neat  hole  clean  through.  Father 
Beret  took  the  case  in  hand,  and  with  no  little  surgical 
skill  proceeded  to  set  the  big  Indian  upon  his  feet 
again.  The  affair  had  to  be  cleverly  managed.  Food, 
medicines  and  clothing  were  surreptitiously  borne 
across  the  river ;  a  bed  of  grass  was  kept  fresh  under 
Long-Hair's  back ;  his  wound  was  regularly  dressed ; 
and  finally  his  weapons — a  tomahawk,  a  knife,  a  strong 
bow  and  a  quiver  of  arrows — which  he  had  hidden  on 
the  night  of  his  bold  theft,  were  brought  to  him. 

"Now  go  and  sin  no  more,"  said  good  Father  Beret ; 
but  he  well  knew  that  his  words  were  mere  puffs  of 
articulate  wind  in  the  ear  of  the  grim  and  silent  sav 
age,  who  limped  away  with  an  air  of  stately  dignity 
into  the  wilderness. 

A  load  fell  from  Alice's  mind  when  Father  Beret 
informed  her  of  Long-Hair's  recovery  and  departure. 
Day  and  night  the  dread  lest  some  of  the  men  should 


The  Rape  of  the  Demijohn        47 

find  out  his  hiding-place  and  kill  him  had  depressed 
and  worried  her.  And  now,  when  it  was  all  over,  there 
still  hovered  like  an  elusive  shadow  in  her  conscious 
ness  a  vague  haunting  impression  of  the  incident's  im 
mense  significance  as  an  influence  in  her  life.  To  feel 
that  she  had  saved  a  man  from  death  was  a  new  sen 
sation  of  itself ;  but  the  man  and  the  circumstances  were 
picturesque ;  they  invited  imagination ;  they  furnished 
an  atmosphere  of  romance  dear  to  all  young  and 
healthy  natures,  and  somehow  stirred  her  soul  with 
a  strange  appeal. 

Long-Hair's  imperturbable  calmness,  his  stolid,  im 
mobile  countenance,  the  mysterious  reptilian  gleam  of 
his  shifty  black  eyes,  and  the  soulless  expression  al 
ways  lurking  in  them,  kept  a  fascinating  hold  on  the 
girl's  memory.  They  blended  curiously  with  the  im 
pressions  left  by  the  romances  she  had  read  in  M. 
Roussillon's  mildewed  books. 

Long-Hair  was  not  a  young  man ;  but  it  would  have 
been  impossib'e  to  guess  near  his  age.  His  form  and 
face  simply  showed  long  experience  and  immeasurable 
vigor.  Alir^  remembered  with  a  shuddering  sensa 
tion  the  look  he  gave  her  when  she  took  the  locket 
from  his  hand.  It  was  \>f  but  a  second's  duration,  yet 
it  seemed  to  search  every  nook  of  her  being  with  its 
subtle  power. 

Romancers  have  made  much  of  their  Indian  heroes, 
picturing  them  as  models  of  manly  beauty  and  nobility ; 
but  all  fiction  must  be  taken  with  liberal  pinches  of 
salt.  The  plain  truth  is  that  dark  savages  of  the  pure 
blood  often  do  possess  the  magnetism  of  perfect  physi- 


48  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

cal  development  and  unfathomable  mental  strangeness ; 
but  real  beauty  they  never  have.  Their  innate  re- 
pulsiveness  is  so  great  that,  like  the  snake's  charm,  it 
may  fascinate;  yet  an  indescribable,  haunting  disgust 
goes  with  it.  And,  after  all,  if  Alice  had  been  asked 
to  tell  just  how  she  felt  toward  the  Indian  she  had 
labored  so  hard  to  save,  she  would  promptly  have  said : 

"I  loathe  him  as  I  do  a  toad!" 

Nor  would  Father  Beret,  put  to  the  same  test,  have 
made  a  substantially  different  confession.  His  work, 
to  do  which  his  life  went  as  fuel  to  fire,  was  training 
the  souls  of  Indians  for  the  reception  of  divine  grace ; 
but  experience  had  not  changed  his  first  impression 
of  savage  character.  When  he  traveled  in  the  wilder 
ness  he  carried  the  Word  and  the  Cross ;  but  he  was 
also  armed  with  a  gun  and  two  good  pistols,  not  to 
mention  a  dangerous  knife.  The  rumor  prevailed  that 
Father  Beret  could  drive  a  nail  at  sixty  yards  with 
his  rifle,  and  at  twenty  snuff  a  candle  with  either  one 
of  his  pistol?. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   FIRST   MAYOR  OF   VINCENNES 

Governor  Abbott  probably  never  so  much  as  heard 
of  the  dame  Jeanne  of  French  brandy  sent  to  him 
by  his  Creole  friend  in  New  Orleans.  He  had  been  gone 
from  Vincennes  several  months  when  the  batteau  ar 
rived,  having  been  recalled  to  Detroit  by  the  British 
authorities ;  and  he  never  returned.  Meantime  the  lit 
tle  post  with  its  quaint  cabins  and  its  dilapidated  block 
house,  called  Fort  Sackville,  lay  sunning  drowsily  by 
the  river  in  a  blissful  state  of  helplessness  from  the 
military  point  of  view.  There  was  no  garrison;  the 
two  or  three  pieces  of  artillery,  abandoned  and  exposed, 
gathered  rust  and  cobwebs,  while  the  pickets  of  the 
stockade,  decaying  and  loosened  in  the  ground  by  win 
ter  freezes  and  summer  rains,  leaned  in  all  directions, 
a  picture  of  decay  and  inefficiency. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  town,  numbering  about  six 
hundred,  lived  very  much  as  pleased  them,  without  any 
regular  municipal  government,  each  family  its  own 
tribe,  each  man  a  law  unto  himself;  yet  for  mutual 
protection,  they  all  kept  in  touch  and  had  certain  com 
mon  rights  which  were  religiously  respected  and  de 
fended  faithfully.  A  large  pasturing  ground  was 
fenced  in  where  the  goats  and  little  black  cows  of 
the  villagers  browsed  as  one  herd,  while  the  patches 
of  wheat,  corn  and  vegetables  were  not  inclosed  at 
all.  A  few  of  the  thriftier  and  more  important  citizens, 

49 


5o  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

however,  had  separate  estates  of  some  magnitude,  sur 
rounding  their  residences,  kept  up  with  care  and,  if  the 
time  and  place  be  taken  into  account,  with  considerable 
show  of  taste. 

Monsieur  Gaspard  Roussillon  was  looked  upon  as 
the  aristocrat  par  excellence  of  Vincennes,  notwith 
standing  the  fact  that  his  name  bore  no  suggestion 
of  noble  or  titled  ancestry.  He  was  rich  and  in  a 
measure  educated ;  moreover  the  successful  man's 
patent  of  leadership,  a  commanding  figure  and  a  suave 
manner,  came  always  to  his  assistance  when  a  crisis 
presented  itself.  He  traded  shrewdly,  much  to  his  own 
profit,  but  invariably  with  the  excellent  result  that  the 
man,  white  or  Indian,  with  whom  he  did  business 
felt  himself  especially  favored  in  the  transaction.  By 
the  exercise  of  firmness,  prudence,  vast  assumption, 
florid  eloquence  and  a  kindly  liberality  he  had  greatly 
endeared  himself  to  the  people ;  so  that  in  the  absence 
of  a  military  commander  he  came  naturally  to  be 
regarded  as  the  chief  of  the  town,  Mo'sieu'  le  maire. 

He  returned  from  his  extended  trading  expedition 
about  the  middle  of  July,  bringing,  as  was  his  invari 
able  rule,  a  gift  for  Alice.  This  time  it  was  a  small, 
thin  disc  of  white  flint,  with  a  hole  in  the  center 
through  which  a  beaded  cord  of  sinew  was  looped. 
The  edge  of  the  disc  was  beautifully  notched  and  the 
whole  surface  polished  so  that  it  shone  like  glass,  while 
the  beads,  made  of  very  small  segments  of  porcupine 
quills,  were  variously  dyed,  making  a  curiously  gaudy 
show  of  bright  colors. 

"There  now,  ma  cherie,  is  something  worth  fifty 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     51 

times  its  weight  in  gold,"  said  M.  Roussillon  when  he 
presented  the  necklace  to  his  foster  daughter  with 
pardonable  self-satisfaction.  "It  is  a  sacred  charm- 
string  given  me  by  an  old  heathen  who  would  sell  his 
soul  for  a  pint  of  cheap  rum.  He  solemnly  informed 
me  that  whoever  wore  it  could  not  by  any  possibility 
be  killed  by  an  enemy." 

Alice  kissed  M.  Roussillon. 

"It's  so  curious  and  beautiful,"  she  said,  holding  it 
up  and  drawing  the  variegated  string  through  her 
fingers.  Then,  with  her  mischievous  laugh,  she  added ; 
"and  I'm  glad  it  is  so  powerful  against  one's  enemy; 
I'll  wear  it  whenever  I  go  where  Adrienne  Bourcier 
is,  see  if  I  don't!" 

"Is  she  your  enemy?  What's  up  between  you  and 
la  petite  Adrienne,  eh?"  M.  Roussillon  lightly  de 
manded.  "You  were  always  the  best  of  good  friends, 
I  thought.  What's  happened?" 

"Oh,  we  are  good  friends,"  said  Alice,  quickly,  "very 
good  friends,  indeed ;  I  was  but  chaffing." 

"Good  friends,  but  enemies;  that's  how  it  is  with 
women.  Who's  the  young  man  that's  caused  the  cool 
ness  ?  I  could  guess,  maybe !"  He  laughed  and  winked 
knowingly.  "May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  name  him  at  a 
venture?" 

"Yes,  if  you'll  be  sure  to  mention  Monsieur  Rene 
de  Ronville,"  she  gayly  answered.  "Who  but  he  could 
work  Adrienne  up  into  a  perfect  green  mist  of  jeal 
ousy  ?" 

"He  would  need  an  accomplice,  I  should  imagine ;  a 


52  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

young  lady  of  some  beauty  and  a  good  deal  of  heart- 
lessness." 

"Like  whom,  for  example?"  and  she  tossed  her 
bright  head.  "Not  me,  I  am  sure." 

"Poh !  like  every  pretty  maiden  in  the  whole  world, 
ma  petite  coquette;  they're  all  alike  as  peas,  cruel  as 
blue  jays  and  as  sweet  as  apple-blossoms."  He  stroked 
her  hair  clumsily  with  his  large  hand,  as  a  heavy  and 
roughly  fond  man  is  apt  to  do,  adding  in  an  almost 
serious  tone : 

"But  my  little  girl  is  better  than  most  of  them,  not 
a  foolish  mischief-maker,  I  hope." 

Alice  was  putting  her  head  through  the  string  of 
beads  and  letting  the  translucent  white  disc  fall  into  her 
bosom. 

"It's  time  to  change  the  subject,"  she  said ;  "tell  me 
what  you  have  seen  while  away.  I  wish  I  could  go 
far  off  and  see  things.  Have  you  been  to  Detroit, 
Quebec,  Montreal?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  to  all,  a  long,  hard  journey,  but 
reasonably  profitable.  You  shall  have  a  goodly  dot 
when  you  get  married,  my  child." 

"And  did  you  attend  any  parties  and  balls?"  she 
inquired  quickly,  ignoring  his  concluding  remark. 
"Tell  me  about  them.  How  do  the  fine  ladies  dress, 
and  do  they  wear  their  hair  high  with  great  big  combs  ? 

Do  they  have  long  skirts  and " 

"Hold  up,  you  double-tongued  chatterbox !"  he  inter  - 
rupted ;  "I  can't  answer  forty  questions  at  once.  Yes, 
I  danced  till  my  legs  ached  with  women  old  and  girls 
potmg ;  but  how  could  I  remember  how  they  were 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     53 

dressed  and  what  their  style  of  coiffure  was?  I  know 
ihat  silk  rustled  and  there  was  a  perfume  of  eau  de 
Cologne  and  mignonette  and  my  heart  expanded  and 
blazed  while  I  whirled  like  a  top  with  a  sweet  lady  in 
my  arms." 

"Yes,  you  must  have  cut  a  ravishing  figure!"  in 
terpolated  Madame  Roussillon  with  emphatic  dis 
approval,  her  eyes  snapping.  "A  bull  in  a  lace  shop. 
How  delighted  the  ladies  must  have  been !" 

"Never  saw  such  blushing  faces  and  burning  glances 
—such  fluttering  breasts,  such " 

"Big  braggart,"  Madame  Roussillon  broke  in  con 
temptuously,  "it's  a  piastre  to  a  sou  that  you  stood 
gawping  in  through  a  window  while  gentlemen  and 
ladies  did  the  dancing.  I  can  imagine  how  you  looked 
— I  can !"  and  with  this  she  took  her  prodigious  bulk 
at  a  waddling  gait  out  of  the  room.  "I  remember  how 
you  danced  even  when  you  were  not  clumsy  as  a  pig 
on  ice!"  she  shrieked  back  over  her  shoulder. 

"Parbleu!  true  enough,  my  dear,"  he  called  after 
her,  "I  should  think  you  could — you  mind  how  we  used 
to  trip  it  together.  You  were  the  prettiest  dancer 
of  them  all,  and  the  young  fellows  all  went  to  the 
swords  about  you!" 

"But  tell  me  more/'  Alice  insisted ;  "I  want  to  knov» 
all  about  what  you  saw  in  the  great  towns — in  the  fine 
houses — how  the  ladies  looked,  how  they  acted — what 
they  said — the  dresses  they  wore — how " 

"del!  you  will  split  my  ears,  child;  can't  you  fill 
my  pipe  and  bring  it  to  me  with  a  coal  on  it?  Then 
I'll  try  to  tell  you  what  I  can,"  he  cried,  assuming  a 


54          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

humorously  resigned  air.  "Perhaps  if  I  smoke  I  can 
remember  everything." 

Alice  gladly  ran  to  do  what  he  asked.  Meantime 
Jean  was  out  on  the  gallery  blowing  a  flute  that  M. 
Roussillon  had  brought  him  from  Quebec. 

The  pipe  well  filled  and  lighted  apparently  did  have 
the  effect  to  steady  and  encourage  M.  Roussillon's  mem 
ory  ;  or  if  not  his  memory,  then  his  imagination,  which 
was  of  that  fervid  and  liberal  sort  common  to  natives 
of  the  Midi,  and  which  has  been  exquisitely  depicted 
by  the  late  Alphonse  Daudet  in  Tartar  in  and  Bom- 
pard.  He  leaned  far  back  in  a  strong  chair,  with  his 
massive  legs  stretched  at  full  length,  and  gazed  at  the 
roof -poles  while  he  talked. 

He  sympathized  fully,  in  his  crude  way,  with  Alice's 
lively  curiosity,  and  his  affection  for  her  made  him 
anxious  to  appease  her  longing  after  news  from  the 
great  outside  world.  If  the  sheer  truth  must  come 
out,  however,  he  knew  precious  little  about  that  world, 
especially  the  polite  part  of  it  in  which  thrived  those 
femininities  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  an  isolated  and 
imaginative  girl.  Still,  as  he,  too,  lived  in  Arcadia, 
there  was  no  great  effort  involved  when  he  undertook 
to  blow  a  dreamer's  flute. 

In  the  first  place  he  had  not  been  in  Quebec  or  Mon 
treal  during  his  absence  from  home.  Most  of  the  time 
he  had  spent  disposing  of  pelts  and  furs  at  Detroit  and 
in  extending  his  trading  relations  with  other  posts ;  but 
what  mattered  a  trifling  want  of  facts  when  his  merid 
ional  fancy  once  began  to  warm  up?  A  smattering 
of  social  knowledge,  gained  at  first  hand  in  his  youth- 


they  discovered  Long-Hair  badly-wounded      p.  43- 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     55 

ful  days  in  France  while  he  was  a  student  whose  par 
ents  fondly  expected  him  to  conquer  the  world,  came 
to  his  aid,  and  besides  he  had  saturated  himself  all  his 
life  with  poetry  and  romance.  Scudery,  Scarron,  Pre- 
vost,  Madame  La  Fayette  and  Calprenede  were  the 
chief  sources  of  his  information  touching  the  life  and 
manners,  morals  and  gayeties  of  people  who,  as  he 
supposed,  stirred  the  surface  of  that  resplendent  and 
far-off  ocean  called  society.  Nothing  suited  him  bet 
ter  than  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  talk  about  what  he  had 
seen  and  done;  and  the  less  he  had  really  seen  and 
done  the  more  he  had  to  tell. 

His  broad,  almost  over-virile,  kindly  and  contented 
face  beamed  with  the  warmth  of  wholly  imaginary 
recollections  while  he  recounted  with  minute  circum 
stantiality  to  the  delighted  Alice  his  gallant  adventures 
in  the  crowded  and  brilliant  ball-rooms  of  the  French- 
Canadian  towns.  The  rolling  burr  of  his  bass  voice, 
deep  and  resonant,  gave  force  to  the  improvised  de 
scriptions. 

Madame  Roussillon  heard  the  heavy  booming  and 
presently  came  softly  back  into  the  door  from  the 
kitchen  to  listen.  She  leaned  against  the  facing  in  an 
attitude  of  ponderous  attention,  a  hand  on  her  bulging 
hip.  She  could  not  suppress  her  unbounded  admira 
tion  of  her  liege  lord's  manly  physique,  and  jealous  to 
fierceness  as  she  was  of  his  experiences  so  eloquently 
and  picturesquely  related,  her  woman's  nature  took 
fire  with  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  described. 

This  is  the  mission  of  the  poet  and  the  romancer — 
to  sponge  out  of  existence,  for  a  time,  the  stiff,  refrac- 


56  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

tory,  and  unlovely  realities  and  give  in  their  place  a 
scene  of  ideal  mobility  and  charm.  The  two  women 
reveled  in  Gaspard  Roussillon's  revelations.  They 
saw  the  brilliant  companies,  the  luxurious  surround 
ings,  heard  the  rustle  of  brocade  and  the  fine  flutter 
of  laces,  the  hum  of  sweet  voices,  breathed  in  the 
wafts  of  costly  perfumeries,  looked  on  while  the  danc 
ers  whirled  and  flickered  in  the  confusion  of  lights; 
and  over  all  and  through  all  poured  and  vibrated  such 
ravishing  music  as  only  the  southern  imagination  could 
have  conjured  up  out  of  nothing. 

Alice  was  absolutely  charmed.  She  sat  on  a  low 
wooden  stool  and  gazed  into  Gaspard  Roussillon's  face 
with  dilating  eyes  in  which  burned  that  rich  and  radi 
ant  something  we  call  a  passionate  soul.  She  drank  in 
his  flamboyant  stream  of  words  with  a  thirst  which 
nothing  but  experience  tould  ever  quench.  He  felt 
her  silent  applause  and  the  admiring  involuntary  ab 
sorption  that  possessed  his  wife;  the  conscious 
ness  of  his  elementary  magnetism  augmented  the  flow 
of  his  fine  descriptions,  and  he  went  on  and  on,  until 
the  arrival  of  Father  Beret  put  an  end  to  it  all. 

The  priest,  hearing  of  M.  Roussillon's  return,  had 
come  to  inquire  about  some  friends  living  at  Detroito 
He  took  luncheon  with  the  family,  enjoying  the  down 
right  refreshing  collation  of  broiled  birds,  onions,  meal- 
cakes  and  claret,  ending  with  a  dish  of  blackberries 
and  cream. 

M.  Ronssillon  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  resume 
his  successful  romancing,  and  presently  in  the  midst 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     57 

of  the  meal  began  to  tell  Father  Beret  about  what  he 
had  seen  in  Quebec. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  with  expansive  casualness  in 
his  voice,  "I  called  upon  your  old-time  friend  and  co 
adjutor,  Father  Sebastien,  while  up  there.  A  noble 
old  man.  He  sent  you  a  thousand  good  messages. 
Was  mightily  delighted  when  I  told  him  how  happy 
and  hale  you  have  always  been  here.  Ah,  you  should 
have  seen  his  dear  old  eyes  full  of  loving  tears.  He 
would  walk  a  hundred  miles  to  see  you,  he  said,  but 
never  expected  to  in  this  world.  Blessings,  blessings 
upon  dear  Father  Beret,  was  what  he  murmured  in 
my  ear  when  we  were  parting.  He  says  that  he  will 
never  leave  Quebec  until  he  goes  to  his  home  above — • 
ah!" 

The  way  in  which  M.  Roussillon  closed  his  little 
speech,  his  large  eyes  upturned,  his  huge  hands  clasped 
in  front  of  him,  was  very  effective. 

"I  am  under  many  obligations,  my  son,"  said  Father 
Beret,  "for  what  you  tell  me.  It  was  good  of  you 
to  remember  my  dear  old  friend  and  go  to  him  for  his 
loving  messages  to  me.  I  am  very,  very  thankful. 
Help  me  to  another  drop  of  wine,  please." 

Now  the  extraordinary  feature  of  the  situation  was 
that  Father  Beret  had  known  positively  for  nearly  five 
years  that  Father  Sebastien  was  dead  and  buried. 

"Ah,  yes,"  M.  Roussillon  continued,  pouring  the 
claret  with  one  hand  and  making  a  pious  gesture  with 
the  other;  "the  dear  old  man  loves  you  and  prays  for 
you ;  his  voice  quavers  whenever  he  speaks  of  you." 

"Doubtless  he  made  his  old  joke  to  you  about  the 


58          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

birth-mark  on  my  shoulder,"  said  Father  Beret  after  a 
moment  of  apparently  thoughtful  silence.  "He  may 
have  said  something  about  it  in  a  playful  way,  eh?" 

"True,  true,  why  yes,  he  surely  mentioned  the  same," 
assented  M.  Roussillon,  his  face  assuming  an  expres 
sion  of  confused  memory;  "it  was  something  sly  and 
humorous,  I  mind;  but  it  just  escapes  my  recollection. 
A  right  jolly  old  boy  is  Father  Sebastien ;  indeed  very 
amusing  at  times." 

"At  times,  yes,"  said  Father  Beret,  who  had  no 
birth-mark  on  his  shoulder,  and  had  never  had  one 
there,  or  on  any  other  part  of  his  person. 

"How  strange!"  Alice  remarked,  "I,  too,  have  a 
mark  on  my  shoulder — a  pink  spot,  just  like  a  small, 
five-petaled  flower.  We  must  be  of  kin  to  each  other, 
Father  Beret." 

The  priest  laughed. 

"If  our  marks  are  alike,  that  would  be  some  evi 
dence  of  kinship,"  he  said. 

"But  what  shape  is  yours,  Father?" 

"I've  never  seen  it,"  he  responded. 

"Never  seen  it!    Why?" 

"Well,  it's  absolutely  invisible,"  and  he  chuckled 
heartily,  meantime  glancing  shrewdly  at  M.  Roussillon 
out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

"It's  on  the  back  part  of  his  shoulder,"  quickly  spoke 
up  M.  Roussillon,  "and  you  know  priests  never  use 
looking-glasses.  The  mark  is  quite  invisible  therefore, 
so  far  as  Father  Beret  is  concerned !" 

"You  never  told  me  of  your  birth-mark  before,  my 
daughter,"  said  Father  Beret,  turning  to  Alice  with 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     59 

sudden  interest.  "It  may  some  day  be  good  fortune  to 
you." 

"Why  so,  Father?" 

"If  your  family  name  is  really  Tarleton,  as  you  sup 
pose  from  the  inscription  on  your  locket,  the  birth 
mark,  being  of  such  singular  shape,  would  probably 
identify  you.  It  is  said  that  these  marks  run  regularly 
in  families.  With  the  miniature  and  the  distinguish 
ing  birth-mark  you  have  enough  to  make  a  strong  case 
should  you  once  find  the  right  Tarleton  family." 

"You  talk  as  they  write  in  novels,"  said  Alice. 
"I've  read  about  just  such  things  in  them.  Wouldn't 
it  be  grand  if  I  should  turn  out  to  be  some  great  per 
sonage  in  disguise !" 

The  mention  of  novels  reminded  Father  Beret  of  that 
terrible  book,  Manon  Lescaut,  which  he  last  saw  in 
Alice's  possession,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  men 
tioning  it  in  a  voice  that  shuddered. 

"Rest  easy,  Father  Beret,"  said  Alice;  "that  is  one 
novel  I  have  found  wholly  distasteful  to  me.  I  tried 
to  read  it,  but  could  not  do  it.  I  flung  it  aside  in  utter 
disgust.  You  and  mother  Roussillon  are  welcome  to 
hide  it  deep  as  a  well,  for  all  I  care.  I  don't  enjoy 
reading  about  low,  vile  people  and  hopeless  unfortu 
nates;  I  like  sweet  and  lovely  heroines  and  strong, 
high-souled,  brave  heroes." 

"Read  about  the  blessed  saints,  then,  my  daughter; 
you  will  find  in  them  the  true  heroes  and  heroines  of 
this  world,"  said  Father  Beret. 

M.  Roussillon  changed  the  subject,  for  he  always 
somehow  dreaded  to  have  the  good  priest  fall  into  the 


60  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

strain  of  argument  he  was  about  to  begin.  A  stray 
sheep,  no  matter  how  refractory,  feels  a  touch  of 
longing  when  it  hears  the  shepherd's  voice.  M.  Rous- 
sillon  was  a  Catholic,  but  a  straying  one,  who  avoided 
the  confessional  and  often  forgot  mass.  Still,  with  all 
his  reckless  independence,  and  with  all  his  outward 
show  of  large  and  breezy  self-sufficiency,  he  was  not 
altogether  free  from  the  hold  that  the  church  had 
laid  upon  him  in  childhood  and  youth.  Moreover,  he 
was  fond  of  Father  Beret  and  had  done  a  great  deal 
for  the  little  church  of  St.  Xavier  and  the  mission  it 
represented;  but  he  distinctly  desired  to  be  let  alone 
while  he  pursued  his  own  course ;  and  he  had  promised 
the  dying  woman  who  gave  Alice  to  him  that  the  child 
should  be  left  as  she  was,  a  Protestant,  without  undue 
influence  to  change  her  from  the  faith  of  her  parents. 
This  promise  he  had  kept  with  stubborn  persistence 
and  he  meant  to  keep  it  as  long  as  he  lived.  Perhaps 
the  very  fact  that  his  innermost  conscience  smote  him 
with  vague  yet  telling  blows  at  times  for  this  departure 
from  the  strict  religion  of  his  fathers,  may  have  in 
tensified  his  resistance  of  the  influence  constantly 
exerted  upon  Alice  by  Father  Beret  and  Madame  Rous- 
sillon,  to  bring  her  gently  but  surely  to  the  church. 
Perverseness  is  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with  in  all  orig 
inal  characters. 

A  few  weeks  had  passed  after  M.  Roussillon's  re 
turn,  when  that  big-hearted  man  took  it  into  his  head 
to  celebrate  his  successful  trading  ventures  with  a 
moonlight  dance  given  without  reserve  to  all  the  inhab 
itants  of  Vincennes.  It  was  certainly  a  democratic 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     61 

function  that  he  contemplated,  and  motley  to  a  most 
picturesque  extent. 

Rene  de  Ronville  called  upon  Alice  a  day  or  two 
previous  to  the  occasion  and  duly  engaged  her  as  his 
partenaire;  but  she  insisted  upon  having  the  engage 
ment  guarded  in  her  behalf  by  a  condition  so  obviously 
fanciful  that  he  accepted  it  without  argument. 

"If  my  wandering  knight  should  arrive  during  the 
dance,  you  promise  to  stand  aside  and  give  place  to 
him,"  she  stipulated.  "You  promise  that?  You  see 
I'm  expecting  him  all  the  time.  I  dreamed  last  night 
that  he  came  on  a  great  bay  horse  and,  stooping, 
whirled  me  up  behind  the  saddle,  and  away  we  went !" 

There  was  a  childish,  half  bantering  air  in  her  look ; 
but  her  voice  sounded  earnest  and  serious,  notwith 
standing  its  delicious  timbre  of  suppressed  playfulness. 

"You  promise  me?"  she  insisted. 

"Oh,  I  promise  to  slink  away  into  a  corner  and  chew 
my  thumb,  the  moment  he  comes,"  Rene  eagerly  as 
sented.  "Of  course  I'm  taking  a  great  risk,  I  know ; 
for  lords  and  barons  and  knights  are  very  apt  to  appear 
suddenly  in  a  place  like  this." 

"You  may  banter  and  make  light  if  you  want  to," 
she  said,  pouting  admirably.  "I  don't  care.  All  the 
same  the  laugh  will  jump  to  the  other  corner  of  your 
mouth,  see  if  it  doesn't.  They  say  that  what  a  person 
dreams  about  and  wishes  for  and  waits  for  and  believes 
in,  will  come  true  sooner  or  later." 

"If  that's  so,"  said  Rene,  "you  and  I  will  get  mar 
ried;  for  I've  dreamed  it  every  night  of  the  year, 
wished  for  it,  waited  for  it  and  believed  in  it,  and " 


62  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

It  was  a  madly  sudden  rush.  He  made  it  on  an  im 
pulse  quite  irresistible,  as  hypnotized  persons  are  said 
to  do  in  response  to  the  suggestion  of  the  hypnotist, 
and  his  heart  was  choking  his  throat  before  he  could 
end  his  speech.  Alice  interrupted  him  with  a  hearty 
burst  of  laughter. 

"A  very  pretty  twist  you  give  to  my  words,  I  must 
declare,"  she  said;  "but  not  new  by  any  means.  Little 
Adrienne  Bourcier  could  tell  you  that.  She  says  that 
you  have  vowed  to  her  over  and  over  that  you  dream , 
about  her,  and  wish  for  her,  and  wait  for  her,  pre 
cisely  as  you  have  just  said  to  me." 

Rene's  brown  face  flushed  to  the  temples,  partly 
with  anger,  partly  with  the  shock  of  mingled  surprise 
and  fear.  He  was  guilty,  and  the  guilt  showed  in  his 
eyes  and  paralyzed  his  tongue,  so  that  he  sat  there 
before  Alice  with  his  under  jaw  sagging  ludicrously. 

"Don't  you  rather  think,  Monsieur  Rene  de  Ron- 
ville,"  she  presently  added  in  a  calmly  advisory  tone, 
"that  you  had  better  quit  trying  to  say  such  foolish 
things  to  me,  and  just  be  my  very  good  friend?  If 
you  don't,  I  do,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  What's 
more,  I  won't  be  your  partenaire  at  the  dance  unless 
you  promise  me  on  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will 
dance  two  dances  with  Adrienne  to  every  one  that  you 
have  with  me.  Do  you  promise?" 

He  dared  not  oppose  her  outwardly,  although  in  his 
heart  resistance  amounted  to  furious  revolt  and  riot. 

"I  promise  anything  you  ask  me  to,"  he  said  re 
signedly,  almost  sullenly ;  "anything  for  you." 

"Well,  I  ask  nothing  whatever  on  my  own  account," 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     63 

Alice  quickly  replied;  "but  I  do  tell  you  firmly  that 
you  shall  not  maltreat  little  Adrienne  Bourcier  and  re 
main  a  friend  of  mine.  She  loves  you,  Rene  de  Ron- 
ville,  and  you  have  told  her  that  you  love  her.  If  you 
are  a  man  worthy  of  respect  you  will  not  desert  her. 
Don't  you  think  I  am  right?" 

Like  a  singed  and  crippled  moth  vainly  trying  to 
rise  once  again  to  the  alluring  yet  deadly  flame,  Rene 
de  Ronville  essayed  to  break  out  of  his  embarrass 
ment  and  resume  equal  footing  with  the  girl  so  sud 
denly  become  his  commanding  superior;  but  the  effort 
disclosed  to  him  as  well  as  to  her  that  he  had  fallen 
to  rise  no  more.  In  his  abject  defeat  he  accepted  the 
terms  dictated  by  Alice  and  was  glad  when  she  adroitly 
changed  her  manner  and  tone  in  going  on  to  discuss 
the  approaching  dance. 

"Now  let  me  make  one  request  of  you,"  he  de 
manded  after  a  while.  "It's  a  small  favor ;  may  I  ask 
it?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  grant  it  in  advance." 

"I  want  you  to  wear,  for  my  sake,  the  buff  gown 
which  they  say  was  your  grandmother's." 

"No,  I  won't  wear  it." 

"But  why,  Alice?" 

"None  of  the  other  girls  have  anything  like  such  a 
dress;  it  would  not  be  right  for  me  to  put  it  on  and 
make  them  all  feel  that  I  had  taken  the  advantage  of 
them,  just  because  I  could ;  that's  why." 

"But  then  none  of  them  is  beautiful  and  educated 
like  you,"  he  said;  "you'll  outshine  them  anyway." 

"Save    your    compliments    for    poor    pretty    little 


64  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Adrienne,"  she  firmly  responded,  "I  positively  do  not 
wish  to  hear  them.  I  have  agreed  to  be  your 
partenaire  at  this  dance  of  Papa  Roussillon's,  but  it 
is  understood  between  us  that  Adrienne  is  your  sweet 
heart.  I  am  not,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be,  either. 
So  for  your  sake  and  Adrienne's,  as  well  as  out  of 
consideration  for  the  rest  of  the  girls  who  have  no 
fine  dresses,  I  am  not  going  to  wear  the  buff  brocade 
gown  that  belonged  to  Papa  Roussillon's  mother  Iqng 
ago.  I  shall  dress  just  as  the  rest  do." 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  Rene  de  Ronville  went  home 
with  a  troublesome  bee  in  his  bonnet.  He  was  not  a 
bad-hearted  fellow.  Many  a  right  good  young  man, 
before  him  and  since,  has  loved  an  Adrienne  and  been 
dazzled  by  an  Alice.  A  violet  is  sweet,  but  a  rose  is 
the  garden's  queen.  The  poor  youthful  frontiersman 
ought  to  have  been  stronger;  but  he  was  not,  and 
what  have  we  to  say? 

As  for  Alice,  since  having  a  confidential  talk  with 
Adrienne  Bourcier  recently,  she  had  come  to  realize 
what  M.  Roussillon  meant  when  he  said:  "But  my 
little  girl  is  better  than  most  of  them,  not  a  foolish 
mischief-maker,  I  hope."  She  saw  through  the  situ 
ation  with  a  quick  understanding  of  what  Adrienne 
might  suffer  should  Rene  prove  permanently  fickle. 
The  thought  of  it  aroused  all  her  natural  honesty  and 
serious  nobleness  of  character,  which  lay  deep  under 
the  almost  hoydenish  levity  usually  observable  in  her 
manner.  Crude  as  her  sense  of  life's  larger  significance 
was,  and  meager  as  had  been  her  experience  in  the 
things  which  count  for  most  in  the  sum  of  a  young 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vincennes     65 

girl's  existence  under  fair  circumstances,  she  grasped 
intuitively  the  gist  of  it  all. 

The  dance  did  not  come  off ;  it  had  to  be  postponed 
indefinitely  on  account  of  a  grave  change  in  the 
political  relations  of  the  little  post.  A  day  or  two 
before  the  time  set  for  that  function  a  rumor  ran 
through  the  town  that  something  of  importance  was 
about  to  happen.  Father  Gibault,  at  the  head  of  a 
small  party,  had  arrived  from  Kaskaskia,  far  away  on 
the  Mississippi,  with  the  news  that  France  and  the 
American  Colonies  had  made  common  cause  against 
the  English  in  the  great  war  of  which  the  people  of 
Vincennes  neither  knew  the  cause  nor  cared  a  straw 
about  the  outcome. 

It  was  Oncle  Jazon  who  came  to  the  Roussillon  place 
to  tell  M.  Roussillon  that  he  was  wanted  at  the  river 
house.  Alice  met  him  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Oncle  Jazon,"  she  cheerily  said,  "you  are 
getting  to  be  a  stranger  at  our  house  lately.  Come  in ; 
what  news  do  you  bring  ?  Take  off  your  cap  and  rest 
your  hair,  Oncle  Jazon." 

The  scalpless  old  fighter  chuckled  raucously  and 
bowed  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  He  not  only  took  off 
his  queer  cap,  but  looked  into  it  with  a  startled  gaze, 
as  if  he  expected  something  infinitely  dangerous  to 
jump  out  and  seize  his  nose. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Ma'm'selle,"  he  presently  said, 
"will  ye  please  tell  Mo'sieu'  Roussillon  that  I  would 
wish  to  see  Jim?" 

"Yes,  Oncle  Jazon;  but  first  be  seated,  and  let 
me  offer  you  just  a  drop  of  eau  de  vie;  some  that  Papa 


66  Alice  ot  Old  Vmcennes 

Roussillon  brought  back  with  him  from  Quebec.    He 
says  it's  old  and  fine." 

She  poured  him  a  full  glass,  then  setting  the  bottle 
on  a  little  stand,  went  to  find  M.  Roussillon.  While 
she  was  absent  Oncle  Jazon  improved  his  opportunity! 
to  the  fullest  extent.  At  least  three  additional  glasses 
of  the  brandy  went  the  way  of  the  first.  He  grinned 
atrociously  and  smacked  his  corrugated  lips ;  -but  when 
Gaspard  Roussillon  came  in,  the  old  man  was  sitting 
at  some  distance  from  the  bottle  and  glass  gazing  in 
differently  out  across  the  veranda.  He  told  his  story 
curtly.  Father  Gibault,  he  said,  had  sent  him  to  ask 
M.  Roussillon  to  come  to  the  river  house,  as  he  had 
news  of  great  importance  to  communicate. 

"Ah,  well,  Oncle  Jazon,  we'll  have  a  nip  of  brandy 
together  before  we  go,"  said  the  host. 

"Why;,  yes,  jes'  one  agin'  the  broilin'  weather," 
assented  Oncle  Jazon ;  "I  don't  mind  jes'  one." 

"A  very  rich  friend  of  mine  in  Quebec  gave  me  this 
brandy,  Oncle  Jazon,"  said  M.  Roussillon,  pouring 
the  liquor  with  a  grand  flourish;  "and  I  thought  of 
you  as  soon  as  I  got  it.  Now,  says  I  to  myself,  if  any 
man  knows  good  brandy  when  he  tastes  it,  it's  Oncle 
Jazon,  and  I'll  give  him  a  good  chance  at  this  bottle 
just  the  first  of  all  my  friends." 

"It  surely  is  delicious,"  said  Oncle  Jazon,  "very  de 
licious."  He  spoke  French  with  a  curious  accent, 
having  spent  long  years  with  English-speaking  fron 
tiersmen  in  the  Carolinas  and  Kentucky,  so  that  their 
lingo  had  become  his  own. 

As  they  walked  side  by  side  down  the  way  to  the 


The  First  Mayor  of  Vmcennes     67 

river  house  they  looked  like  typical  extremes  of  rough, 
Sun-burned  and  weather-tanned  manhood ;  Oncle  Jazon 
a  wizened,  diminutive  scrap,  wrinkled  and  odd  in  every 
respect;  Gaspard  Roussillon  towering  six  feet  two, 
wide  shouldered,  massive,  lumbering,  muscular,  a  giant 
with  long  curling  hair  and  a  superb  beard.  They  did 
not  know  that  they  were  going  down  to  help  dedicate 
the  great  Northwest  to  freedom. 


CHAPTER  V 

FATHER  GIBAULT. 

Great  movements  in  the  affairs  of  men  are  like  tides 
of  the  seas  which  reach  and  affect  the  remotest  and 
quietest  nooks  and  inlets,  imparting  a  thrill  and  a 
swell  of  the  general  motion.  Father  Gibault  brought 
the  wave  of  the  American  Revolution  to  Vincennes.  He 
was  a  simple  missionary ;  but  he  was,  besides,  a  man  of 
great  worldly  knowledge  and  personal  force.  Colonel 
George  Rogers  Clark  made  Father  Gibault's  acquaint 
ance  at  Kaskaskia,  when  the  fort  and  its  garrison  sur 
rendered  to  his  command,  and,  quickly  discerning  the 
fine  qualities  of  the  priest's  character,  sent  him  to  the 
post  on  the  Wabash  to  win  over  its  people  to  the 
cause  of  freedom  and  independence.  Nor  was  the 
task  assumed  a  hard  one,  as  Father  Gibault  probably 
well  knew  before  he  undertook  it. 

A  few  of  the  leading  men  of  Vincennes,  presided 
over  by  Gaspard  Roussillon,  held  a  consultation  at  the 
river  house,  and  it  was  agreed  that  a  mass  meeting 
should  be  called  bringing  all  of  the  inhabitants  to 
gether  in  the  church  for  the  purpose  of  considering 
the  course  to  be  taken  under  the  circumstances  made 
known  by  Father  Gibault.  Oncle  Jazon  constituted 
himself  an  executive  committee  of  one  to  stir  up  a 
noise  for  the  occasion. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  Vincennes.  The  volatile 
temperament  of  the  French  frontiersmen  bubbled  over 

«8 


Father  Gibault  69 

with  enthusiasm  at  the  first  hint  of  something  new 
and  revolutionary  in  which  they  might  be  expected  to 
take  part.  Without  knowing  in  the  least  what  it  was 
that  Father  Gibault  and  Oncle  Jazon  wanted  of  them, 
they  were  all  in  favor  of  it  at  a  venture. 

Rene  de  Ronville,  being  an  active  and  intelligent 
young  man,  was  sent  about  through  the  town  to  let 
everybody  know  of  the  meeting.  In  passing  he 
stepped  into  the  cabin  of  Father  Beret,  who  was  sit 
ting  on  the  loose  puncheon  floor,  with  his  back  turned 
toward  the  entrance  and  so  absorbed  in  trying  to  put 
together  a  great  number  of  small  paper  fragments  that 
he  did  not  hear  or  look  up. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  the  meeting,  Father?"  Rene 
bluntly  demanded.  In  the  hurry  that  was  on  him  he 
did  not  remember  to  be  formally  polite,  as  was  his 
habit. 

The  old  priest  looked  up  with  a  startled  face.  At 
the  same  time  he  swept  the  fragments  of  paper  to 
gether  and  clutched  them  hard  in  his  right  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  son — yes  I  am  going,  but  the  time 
has  not  yet  come  for  it,  has  it  ?"  he  stammered.  "Is  it 
late?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  appeared  confused,  as  if 
caught  in  doing  something  very  improper. 

Rene  wondered  at  this  unusual  behavior,  but  merely 
said: 

"I  beg  pardon,  Father  Beret,  I  did  not  mean  to  dis 
turb  you,"  and  went  his  way. 

Father  Beret  stood  for  some  minutes  as  if  dazed, 
then  squeezed  the  paper  fragments  into  a  tight  ball, 


7O  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

just  as  they  were  when  he  took  them  from  under 
the  floor  some  time  before  Rene  came  in,  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket.  A  little  later  he  was  kneeling,  as  we  have 
seen  him  once  before,  in  silent  yet  fervent  prayer,  his 
clasped  hands  lifted  toward  the  crucifix  on  the  wall, 

"Jesus,  give  me  strength  to  hold  on  and  do  my 
work,"  he  murmured  beseechingly,  "and  oh,  free  thy 
poor  servant  from  bitter  temptation." 

Father  Gibault  had  come  prepared  to  use  his  elo 
quence  upon  the  excitable  Creoles,  and  with  consider 
able  cunning  he  addressed  a  motley  audience  at  the 
church,  telling  them  that  an  American  force  had  taken 
Kaskaskia  and  would  henceforth  hold  it;  that  France 
had  joined  hands  with  the  Americans  against  the  Brit 
ish,  and  that  it  was  the  duty  of  all  Frenchmen  to  help 
uphold  the  cause  of  freedom  and  independence. 

"I  come,"  said  he,  "directly  from  Colonel  George 
Rogers  Clark,  a  noble  and  brave  officer  of  the  Amer 
ican  army,  who  told  me  the  news  that  I  have  brought 
to  you.  He  sent  me  here  to  say  to  you  that  if  you 
will  give  allegiance  to  his  government  you  shall  be 
protected  against  all  enemies  and  have  the  full  free 
dom  of  citizens.  I  think  you  should  do  this  without 
a  moment's  hesitation,  as  I  and  my  people  at  Kas 
kaskia  have  already  done.  But  perhaps  you  would 
like  to  have  a  word  from  your  distinguished  fellow- 
citizen,  Monsieur  Gaspard  Roussillon.  Speak  to  your 
friends,  my  son,  they  will  be  glad  to  take  counsel  of 
your  wisdom." 

There  was  a  stir  and  a  craning  of  necks.  M.  Rous 
sillon  presently  appeared  near  the  little  chancel,  his 


Father  Gibault  71 

great  form  towering  majestically.  He  bowed  and 
waved  his  hand  with  the  air  of  one  who  accepts  distinc 
tion  as  a  matter  of  course;  then  he  took  his  big  silver 
watch  and  looked  at  it.  He  was  the  only  man  in 
Vincennes  who  owned  a  watch,  and  so  the  incident 
was  impressive.  Father  Gibault  looked  pleased,  and 
already  a  murmur  of  applause  went  through  the  audi 
ence.  M.  Roussillon  stroked  the  bulging  crystal  of 
the  time-piece  with  a  circular  motion  of  his  thumb  and 
bowed  again,  clearing  his  throat  resonantly,  his  face 
growing  purplish  above  his  beard. 

"Good  friends,"  he  said,  "what  France  does  all  high- 
class  Frenchmen  applaud."  He  paused  for  a  shout  of 
approbation,  and  was  not  disappointed.  "The  other 
name  for  France  is  glory,"  he  added,  "and  all  true 
Frenchmen  love  both  names.  I  am  a  true  Frenchman !" 
and  he  struck  his  breast  a  resounding  blow  with  the 
hand  that  still  held  the  watch.  A  huge  horn  button  on 
his  buckskin  jerkin  came  in  contact  with  the  crystal, 
and  there  was  a  smash,  followed  by  a  scattered  tinkling 
of  glass  fragments. 

All  Vincennes  stood  breathless,  contemplating  the 
irreparable  accident.  M.  Roussillon  had  lost  the  effect 
of  a  great  period  in  his  speech,  but  he  was  quick. 
Lifting  the  watch  to  his  ear,  he  listened  a  moment 
with  superb  dignity,  then  slowly  elevating  his  head 
and  spreading  his  free  hand  over  his  heart  he  said : 

"The  faithful  time-piece  still  tells  off  the  seconds, 
and  the  loyal  heart  of  its  owner  still  throbs  with  patri 
otism." 

Oncle  Jazon,  who  stood  in  front  of  the  speaker.- 


72  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

swung  his  shapeless  cap  as  high  as  he  could  and  yelled 
like  a  savage.  Then  the  crowd  went  wild  for  a  time. 

"Vive  la  France!  A  bas  V  Angleterre!"  Everybody 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"What  France  does  we1  all  do,"  continued  M.  Rous- 
sillon,  when  the  noise  subsided.  "France  has  clasped 
hands  with  George  Washington  and  his  brave  com 
patriots;  so  do  we." 

"Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!"  shrieked  Oncle  Jazon  ia 
a  piercing  treble,  tiptoeing  and  shaking  his  cap  reck 
lessly  under  M.  Roussillon's  nose. 

The  orator  winced  and  jerked  his  head  back,  but 
nobody  saw  it,  save  perhaps  Father  Gibault,  who 
laughed  heartily. 

Great  sayings  come  suddenly,  unannounced  and  un 
expected.  They  have  the  mysterious  force  of  prophetic 
accident  combined  with  happy  economy  of  phrasing- 
The  southern  blood  in  M.  Roussillon's  veins  was  effer 
vescing  upon  his  brain ;  his  tongue  had  caught  the  fine 
freedom  and  abandon  of  inspired  oratory.  He  towered 
and  glowed ;  words  fell  melodiously  from  his  lips ;  his 
gestures  were  compelling,  his  visage  magnetic.  In  con 
clusion  he  said: 

"Frenchmen,  America  is  the  garden-spot  of  the 
world  and  will  one  day  rule  it,  as  did  Rome  of  old. 
Where  freedom  makes  her  home,  there  is  the  centre  of 
power!" 

It  was  in  a  little  log  church  on  the  verge  of  a  hum 
mock  overlooking  a  marshy  wild  meadow.  Westward 
for  two  thousand  miles  stretched  the  unbroken  prairies, 
woods,  mountains,  deserts  reaching  to  the  Pacific; 


Father  Gibault  73 

southward  for  a  thousand  miles  rolled  the  green  bil 
lows  of  the  wilderness  to  the  warm  Gulf  shore ;  north 
ward  to  the  pole  and  eastward  to  the  thin  fringe  of 
settlements  beyond  the  mountains,  all  was  houseless 
solitude. 

If  the  reader  should  go  to  Vincennes  to-day  and 
walk  southward  along  Second  Street  to  its  intersection 
with  Church  Street,  the  spot  then  under  foot  would 
be  probably  very  near  where  M.  Roussillon  stood 
while  uttering  his  great  sentence.  Mind  you,  the  pres 
ent  writer  does  not  pretend  to  know  the  exact  site  of 
old  Saint  Xavier  church.  If  it  could  be  fixed  beyond 
doubt  the  spot  should  have  an  imperishable  monument 
of  Indiana  stone. 

When  M.  Roussillon  ceased  speaking  the  audience 
again  exhausted  its  vocal  resources;  and  then  Father 
Gibault  called  upon  each  man  to  come  forward  and 
solemnly  pledge  his  loyalty  to  the  American  cause. 
Not  one  of  them  hesitated. 

Meantime  a  woman  was  doing  her  part  in  the  trans 
formation  of  Post  Vincennes  from  a  French-English 
picket  to  a  full-fledged  American  fort  and  town.  Ma 
dame  Godere,  finding  out  what  was  about  to  happen, 
fell  to  work  making  a  flag  in  imitation  of  that  under 
which  George  Washington  was  fighting.  Alice  chanced 
to  be  in  the  Godere  home  at  the  time  and  joined  en 
thusiastically  in  the  sewing.  It  was  an  exciting  task. 
Their  fingers  trembled  while  they  worked,  and  the 
thread,  heavily  coated  with  beeswax,  squeaked  as  they 
drew  it  through  the  cloth. 

"We  shall  not  be  in  time/'  said  Madame  Godere; 


74  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"I  know  we  shall  not.  Everything  hinders  me.  My 
thread  breaks  or  gets  tangled  and  my  needle's  so  rusty 
I  can  hardly  stick  it  through  the  cloth.  O  dear !" 

Alice  encouraged  her  with  both  words  and  work,  and 
they  had  almost  finished  when  Rene  came  with  a  staff 
which  he  had  brought  from  the  fort. 

"Mon  dieu,  but  we  have  had  a  great  meeting !"  he 
cried.  He  was  perspiring  with  excitement  and  fast 
walking;  leaning  on  the  staff  he  mopped  his  face  with 
a  blue  handkerchief. 

"We  heard  much  shouting  and  noise,"  said  Madame 
Godere.  "M.  Roussillon's  voice  rose  loud  above  the 
rest.  He  roared  like  a  lion." 

"Ah,  he  was  speaking  to  us;  he  was  very  elo 
quent,"  Rene  replied.  "But  now  they  are  waiting  at 
the  fort  for  the  new  flag.  I  have  come  for  it." 

"It  is  ready,"  said  Madame  Godere. 

With  flying  fingers  Alice  sewed  it  to  the  staff. 

"Void!"  she  cried,  "vwe  la  republique  Americaine!" 
She  lifted  the  staff  and  let  the  flag  droop  over  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  Rene,  holding  forth  a  hand  for 
it,  "and  I'll  run  to  the  fort  with  it." 

"No,"  said  Alice,  her  face  suddenly  lighting  up 
with  resolve.  "No,  I  am  going  to  take  it  myself,"  and 
without  a  moment's  delay  off  she  went. 

Rene  was  so  caught  by  surprise  that  he  stood  gazing 
after  her  until  she  passed  behind  a  house,  where  the 
way  turned,  the  shining  flag  rippling  around  her,  and 
her  moccasins  twinkling  as  she  ran. 

At  the  blockhouse,  awaiting  the  moment  when  the 


Father  Gibault  75 

symbol  of  freedom  should  rise  like  a  star  over  old 
Vincennes,  the  crowd  had  picturesquely  broken  into 
scattered  groups.  Alice  entered  through  a  rent  in 
the  stockade,  as  that  happened  to  be  a  shorter  route 
than  through  the  gate,  and  appeared  suddenly  almost 
in  their  midst. 

It  was  a  happy  surprise,  a  pretty  and  catching  spec 
tacular  apparition  of  a  sort  to  be  thoroughly  appreci 
ated  by  the  lively  French  fancy  of  the  audience.  The 
men  caught  the  girl's  spirit,  or  it  caught  them,  and  they 
made  haste  to  be  noisy. 

"Via!  Vial  I'p'tite  Alice  et  la  banniere  de  Zhorzh 
Vasinton!  (Look,  look,  little  Alice  and  George  Wash 
ington's  flag!)"  shouted  Oncle  Jazon.  He  put  his  wiry 
little  legs  through  a  sort  of  pas  de  zephyr  and  winked 
at  himself  with  concentrated  approval. 

All  the  men  danced  around  and  yelled  till  they  were 
hoarse. 

By  this  time  Rene  had  reached  Alice's  side ;  but  she 
did  not  see  him;  she  ran  into  the  blockhouse  and 
climbed  up  a  rude  ladder-way;  then  she  appeared  on 
the  roof,  still  accompanied  by  Rene,  and  planted  the 
staff  in  a  crack  of  the  slabs,  where  it  stood  bravely  up, 
the  colors  floating  free. 

She  looked  down  and  saw  M.  Roussillon,  Father 
Gibault  and  Father  Beret  grouped  in  the  centre  of 
the  area.  They  were  waving  their  hands  aloft  at  her, 
while  a  bedlam  of  voices  sent  up  applause  which  went 
through  her  blood  like  strong  wine.  She  smiled  radi 
antly,  and  a  sweet  flush  glowed  in  her  cheeks. 

No  one  of  all  that  wild  crowd  could  ever   forget 


76  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  picture  sketched  so  boldly  at  that  moment 
when,  after  planting  the  staff,  Alice  stepped  back  a 
space  and  stood  strong  and  beautiful  against  the  soft 
blue  sky.  She  glanced  down  first,  then  looked  up,  her 
arms  folded  across  her  bosom.  It  was  a  pose  as  un 
consciously  taken  as  that  of  a  bird,  and  the  grace  of  it 
went  straight  to  the  hearts  of  those  below. 

She  turned  about  to  descend,  and  for  the  first  time 
saw  that  Rene  had  followed  her.  His  face  was  beam 
ing. 

"What  a  girl  you  are!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
exultant  admiration.  "Never  was  there  another  like 
you!" 

Alice  walked  quickly  past  him  without  speaking; 
for  down  in  the  space  where  some  women  were 
huddled  aside  from  the  crowd,  looking  on,  she  had 
seen  little  Adrienne  Bourcier.  She  made  haste  to 
descend.  Now  that  her  impulsively  chosen  enterprise 
was  completed  her  boldness  deserted  her  and  she 
slipped  out  through  a  dilapidated  postern  opposite  the 
crowd.  On  her  right  was  the  rh-er,  while  southward 
before  her  lay  a  great  flat  plain,  beyond  which  rose 
some  hillocks  covered  with  forest.  The  sun  blazed 
between  masses  of  slowly  drifting  clouds  that  trailed 
creeping  fantastic  shadows  across  the  marshy  waste. 

Alice  walked  along  under  cover  of  the  slight  land- 
swell  which  then,  more  plainly  marked  than  it  is  now, 
formed  the  contour  line  of  hummock  upon  which  the 
fort  and  village  stood.  A  watery  swale  grown  full  of 
tall  aquatic  weeds  meandered  parallel  with  the  bluff, 
so  to  call  it,  and  there  was  a  soft  melancholy  whisper- 


Father  Gibault  77 

ing  of  wind  among  the  long  blades  and  stems.  She 
passed  the  church  and  Father  Beret's  hut  and  con 
tinued  for  some  distance  in  the  direction  of  that  pretty 
knoll  upon  which  the  cemetery  is  at  present  so  taste 
fully  kept.  She  felt  shy  now,  as  if  to  run  away  and 
hide  would  be  a  great  relief.  Indeed,  so  relaxed  were 
her  nerves  that  a  slight  movement  in  the  grass  and 
cat-tail  flags  near  by  startled  her  painfully,  making 
her  jump  like  a  fawn. 

"Little  friend  not  be  'fraid,"  said  a  guttural  voice 
in  broken  French.  "Little  friend  not  make  noise." 

At  a  glance  she  recognized  Long-Hair,  the  Indian, 
rising  out  of  the  matted  marsh  growth.  It  was  a 
hideous  vision  of  embodied  cunning,  soullessness  and 
murderous  cruelty. 

"Not  tell  white  man  you  see  me?"  he  grunted  in 
terrogatively,  stepping  close  to  her.  He  looked  so 
wicked  that  she  recoiled  and  lifted  her  hands  de 
fensively. 

She  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  her  voice  failed 
her ;  but  she  made  a  negative  sign  and  smiled  at  him, 
turning  as  white  as  her  tanned  face  could  become. 

In  his  left  hand  he  held  his  bow,  while  in  his  right 
he  half  lifted  a  murderous  looking  tomahawk. 

"What  new  flag  mean?"  he  demanded,  waving  the 
bow's  end  toward  the  fort  and  bending  his  head  down 
close  to  hers.  "Who  yonder?" 

"The  great  American  Father  has  taken  us  under  his 
protection,"  she  explained.  "We  are  big-knives  now.** 
It  almost  choked  her  to  speak. 


78          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Ugh!  heap  damn  fools,"  he  said  with  a  dark  scowl. 
''Little  friend  much  damn  fool." 

He  straightened  up  his  tall  form  and  stood  leering 
at  her  for  some  seconds,  then  added : 

"Little  friend  get  killed,  scalped,  maybe." 

The  indescribable  nobility  of  animal  largeness,  sym 
metry  and  strength  showed  in  his  form  and  attitude, 
but  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  absolutely 
repulsive — cold,  hard,  beastly. 

He  did  not  speak  again,  but  turned  quickly,  and 
stooping  low,  disappeared  like  a  great  brownish  red 
serpent  in  the  high  grass,  which  scarcely  stirred  as 
he  moved  through  it. 

Somehow  that  day  made  itself  strangely  memor 
able  to  Alice.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  stirring 
scenes  and  sudden  changes  of  conditions ;  but  this  was 
the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  joined  actively  in  a 
public  movement  of  importance.  Then,  too,  Long- 
Hair's  picturesque  and  rudely  dramatic  reappearance 
affected  her  imagination  with  an  indescribable  force. 
Moreover,  the  pathetic  situation  in  the  love  affair  be 
tween  Rene  and  Adrienne  had  taken  hold  of  her  con 
science  with  a  disturbing  grip.  But  the  shadowy  sense 
of  impending  events,  of  which  she  could  form  no  idea, 
was  behind  it  all.  She  had  not  heard  of  Brandywine, 
Or  Bunker  Hill,  or  Lexington,  or  Concord ;  but  some 
thing  like  a  waft  of  their  significance  had  blown 
through  her  mind.  A  great  change  was  coming  into 
her  idyllic  life.  She  was  indistinctly  aware  of  it,  as 
we  sometimes  are  of  an  approaching  storm,  while  yet 
the  sky  is  sweetly  blue  and  serene.  When  she  reached 


Father  Gibault  79 

home  the  house  was  full  of  people  to  whom  M.  Rous- 
sillon,  in  the  gayest  of  moods,  was  dispensing  wine 
and  brandy. 

"Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!"  shouted  Oncle  Jazon  as 
soon  as  he  saw  her. 

And  then  they  all  talked  at  once,  saying  flattering 
things  about  her.  Madame  Roussillon  tried  to  scold 
as  usual;  but  the  lively  chattering  of  the  guests 
drowned  her  voice. 

"I  suppose  the  American  commander  will  send  a 
garrison  here,"  some  one  said  to  Father  Gibault,  "and 
repair  the  fort." 

"Probably,"  the  priest  replied,  "in  a  very  few  weeks. 
Meantime  we  will  garrison  it  ourselves." 

"And  we  will  have  M.  Roussillon  for  commander," 
spoke  up  Rene  de  Ronville,  who  was  standing  by. 

"A  good  suggestion,"  assented  Father  Gibault ;  "let 
us  organize  at  once." 

Immediately  the  word  was  passed  that  there  would 
be  a  meeting  at  the  fort  that  evening  for  the  purpose 
of  choosing  a  garrison  and  a  commander.  Everybody 
went  promptly  at  the  hour  set.  M.  Roussillon  was 
elected  Captain  by  acclamation,  with  Rene  de  Ronville 
as  his  Lieutenant.  It  was  observed  that  Oncle  Jazon 
had  resumed  his  dignity,  and  that  he  looked  into  his 
cap  several  times  without  speaking. 

Meantime  certain  citizens,  who  had  been  in  close 
relations  with  Governor  Abbott  during  his  stay,  quiet' 
ly  slipped  out  of  town,  manned  a  batteau  and  went  up 
the  river,  probably  to  Ouiatenon  first  and  then  to 


8o  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Detroit.    Doubtless  they  suspected  that  things  might 
soon  grow  too  warm  for  their  comfort. 

It  was  thus  that  Vincennes  and  Fort  Sackville  first 
acknowledged  the  American  Government  and  hoisted 
the  flag  which,  as  long  as  it  floated  over  the 
blockhouse,  was  lightly  and  lovingly  called  by  every 
one  la  banniere  d' Alice  Roussillon. 

Father  Gibault  returned  to  Fort  Kaskaskia  and  a  lit 
tle  later  Captain  Leonard  Helm,  a  jovial  man,  but  past 
the  prime  of  life,  arrived  at  Vincennes  with  a  com 
mission  from  Col.  Clark  authorizing  him  to  super 
sede  M.  Roussillon  as  commander,  and  to  act  as  Indian 
agent  for  the  American  Government  in  the  Department 
of  the  Wabash.  He  was  welcomed  by  the  villagers, 
and  at  once  made  himself  very  pleasing  to  them  by 
adapting  himself  to  their  ways  and  entering  heartily 
into  their  social  activities. 

M.  Roussillon  was  absent  when  Captain  Helm  and 
his  party  came.  Rene  de  Ronville,  nominally  in  com 
mand  of  the  fort,  but  actually  enjoying  some  excellent 
grouse  shooting  with  a  bell-mouthed  old  fowling  piece 
on  a  distant  prairie,  could  not  be  present  to  deliver  up 
the  post;  and  as  there  was  no  garrison  just  then  visible, 
Helm  took  possession,  without  any  formalities. 

"I  think,  Lieutenant,  that  you'd  better  look  around 
through  the  village  and  see  if  you  can  scare  up  this 
Captain  what's-his-name,"  said  the  new  commander  to 
a  stalwart  young  officer  who  had  come  with  him.  "I 
can't  think  of  these  French  names  without  getting  my 
brain  in  a  twist.  Do  you  happen  to  recollect  the  Cap 
tain's  name,  Lieutenant  ?" 

• 


Father  Gibault  81 

"Yes,  sir;  Gaspard  Roussillon  it  reads  in  Colonel 
Clark's  order ;  but  I  am  told  that  he's  away  on  a  trading 
tour,"  said  the  young  man, 

"You  may  be  told  anything  by  these  hair-tongued 
parlyvoos,"  Helm  remarked.  "It  won't  hurt,  anyway, 
to  find  out  where  he  lives  and  make  a  formal  call,  just 
for  appearance  sake,  and  to  enquire  about  his  health,, 
I  wish  you  would  try  it,  sir,  and  let  me  know  the 
result." 

The  Lieutenant  felt  that  this  was  a  peremptory  order 
and  turned  about  to  obey  promptly. 

"And  I  say,  Beverley,  come  back  sober,  if  you  possi 
bly  can,"  Helm  added  in  his  most  genial  tone,  thinking 
it  a  great  piece  of  humor  to  suggest  sobriety  to  a  man 
whose  marked  difference  from  men  generally,  of  that 
time,  was  his  total  abstinence  from  intoxicating  drinks. 

Lieutenant  Fitzhugh  Beverley  was  a  Virginian  of 
Virginians.  His  family  had  long  been  prominent  in 
colonial  affairs  and  boasted  a  record  of  great  achieve 
ments  both  in  peace  and  in  war.  He  was  the  only  son 
of  his  parents  and  heir  to  a  fine  estate  consisting  of 
lands  and  slaves ;  but,  like  many  another  of  the  restless 
young  cavaliers  of  the  Old  Dominion,  he  had  come  in 
search  of  adventure  over  into  Kentucky,  along  the  path 
blazed  by  Daniel  Boone;  and  when  Clark  organized 
his  little  army,  the  young  man's  patriotic  and  chival 
rous  nature  leaped  at  the  opportunity  to  serve  his  coun 
try  under  so  gallant  a  commander. 

Beverley  was  not  a  mere  youth,  although  yet  some 
what  under  thirty.  Educated  abroad  and  naturally  of  a 
thoughtful  and  studious  turn,  he  had  enriched  his  mind 


82  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

far  beyond  the  usual  limit  among  young  Americans  oi 
the  very  best  class  in  that  time;  and  so  he  appeared 
older  than  he  really  was:  an  effect  helped  out  by  his 
large  and  powerful  form  and  grave  dignity  of  bearing. 
Clark,  who  found  him  useful  in  emergencies,  cool,  in 
trepid,  daring  to  a  fault  and  possessed  of  excellent 
judgement,  sent  him  with  Helm,  'hoping  that  he  would 
offset  with  his  orderly  attention  to  details  the  somewhat 
go-as-you-please  disposition  of  that  excellent  officer. 

Beverley  set  out  in  search  of  the  French  command 
er's  house,  impressed  with  no  particular  respect  foi 
him  or  his  office.  Somehow  Americans  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  blood  were  slow  to  recognize  any  good  qualities 
whatever  in  the  Latin  Creoles  of  the  West  and  South. 
It  seemed  to  them  that  the  Frenchman  and  the  Span 
iard  were  much  too  apt  to  equalize  themselves  socially 
and  matrimonially  with  Indians  and  negroes.  The 
very  fact  that  for  a  century,  while  Anglo-American.* 
had  been  in  constant  bloody  warfare  with  savages, 
Frenchmen  had  managed  to  keep  on  easy  and  highly 
profitable  trading  terms  with  them,  tended  to  confirm 
the  worst  implication.  "Eat  frogs  and  save  your  scalp," 
was  a  bit  of  contemptuous  frontier  humor  indicative 
of  what  sober  judgement  held  in  reserve  on  the  subject. 

Intent  upon  his  formal  mission,  Lieutenant  Beverley 
stalked  boldly  into  the  inclosure  at  Roussillon  place  and 
was  met  on  the  gallery  by  Madame  Roussillon  in  one 
of  her  worst  moods.  She  glared  at  him  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  her  mouth  set  irritably  aslant  upward,  her 
eyebrows  gathered  into  a  dark  knot  over  her  nose.  It 
would  be  hard  to  imagine  a  more  forbidding  counte*- 


Father  Gibault  83 

nance ;  and  for  supplementary  effect  out  popped  httnch- 
back  Jean  to  stand  behind  her,  with  his  big  head  lying 
back  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulders  and  his  long  chin, 
elevated,  while  he  gawped  intently  up  into  Beverley's 
face. 

"Bon  jour,  Madame,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  lifting  his 
hat  and  speaking  with  a  pleasant  accent.  "Would  it 
be  agreeable  to  Captain  Roussillon  for  me  to  see  him  a 
moment  ?" 

Despite  Beverley's  cleverness  in  using  the  French 
language,  he  had  a  decided  brusqueness  of  manner  and 
a  curt  turn  of  voice  not  in  the  least  Gallic.  True,  the 
soft  Virginian  intonation  marked  every  word,  and  his 
obeisance  was  as  low  as  if  Madame  Roussillon  had  been 
a  queen ;  but  the  light  French  grace  was  wholly  lacking. 

"What  do  you  want  of  my  husband?"  Madame 
Roussillon  demanded. 

"Nothing  unpleasant,  I  assure  you,  Madame,"  said 
Beverley. 

"Well,  he's  not  at  home,  Mo'sieu ;  he's  up  the  river 
for  a  few  days. 

She  relaxed  her  stare,  untied  her  eyebrows,  and  even 
let  fall  her  hands  from  her  shelf-like  hips. 

"Thank  you,  Madame,"  said  Beverley,  bowing  again, 
"1  am  sorry  not  to  have  seen  him." 

As  he  was  turning  to  go  a  shimmer  of  brown  hair 
streaked  with  gold  struck  upon  his  vision  from  just 
within  the  door.  He  paused,  as  if  in  response  to  a 
military  command,  while  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  met  his 
with  a  flash.  The  cabin  room  was  ill  lighted ;  but  the 
crepuscular  dimness  did  not  seem  to  hinder  his  sight. 


84  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Beyond  the  girl's  figure,  a  pair  of  slender  swords  hung 
crossed  aslant  on  the  wall  opposite  the  low  door. 

Beverley  had  seen,  in  the  old  world  galleries,  pictures 
in  which  the  shadowy  and  somewhat  uncertain  back 
ground  thus  forced  into  strongest  projection  the  main 
figure,  yet  without  clearly  defining  it.  The  rough 
frame  of  the  doorway  gave  just  the  rustic  setting  suited 
to  Alice's  costume,  the  most  striking  part  of  which  was 
a  grayish  short  gown  ending  just  above  her  fringed 
buckskin  moccasins.  Around  her  head  she  had  bound 
a  blue  kerchief,  a  wide  corner  of  which  lay  over  her 
crown  like  a  loose  cap.  Her  bright  hair  hung  free  upon 
her  shoulders  in  tumbled  half  curls.  As  a  picture,  the 
figure  and  its  entourage  might  have  been  artistically 
effective ;  but  as  Beverley  saw  it  in  actual  life  the  first 
impression  was  rather  embarrassing.  Somehow  he 
felt  almost  irresistibly  invited  to  laugh,  though  he  had 
never  been  much  given  to  risibility.  The  blending,  or 
rather  the  juxtaposition,  of  extremes — a  face,  a  form 
immediately  witching,  and  a  costume  odd  to  grotes- 
query — had  made  an  assault  upon  his  comprehension 
at  once  so  sudden  and  so  direct  that  his  dignity  came 
near  being  disastrously  broken  up.  A  splendidly  beau 
tiful  child  comically  clad  would  have  made  much  the 
same  half  delightful,  half  displeasing  impression. 

Beverley  could  not  stare  at  the  girl,  and  no  sooner 
had  he  turned  his  back  upon  her  than  the  picture  in  his 
mind  changed  like  a  scene  in  a  kaleidoscope.  He  now 
saw  a  tall,  finely  developed  figure  and  a  face  delicately 
oval,  with  a  low,  wide  forehead,  arched  brows,  a 
straight,  slightly  tip-tilted  nose,  a  mouth  sweet  and 


Father  Gibault  85 

dimpled  cheeks,  and  a  strong  chin  set  above  a  faultless 
throat.  His  imagination,  in  casting  off  its  first  im 
pression,  was  inclined  to  exaggerate  Alice's  beauty  arid 
to  dwell  upon  its  picturesqueness.  He  smiled  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  fort,  and  even  found  himself  whis 
tling  gayly  a  snatch  from  a  rollicking  fiddle-tune  that 
he  had  heard  when  a  boy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   FENCING   BOUT 

A  few  days  after  Helm's  arrival,  M.  Roussillon  re 
turned  to  Vincennes,  and  if  he  was  sorely  touched  in 
his  amour  propre  by  seeing  his  suddenly  acquired  mili 
tary  rank  and  title  drop  away,  he  did  not  let  it  be  known 
to  his  fellow  citizens.  He  promptly  called  upon  the 
new  commander  and  made  acquaintance  with  Lieuten 
ant  Fitzhugh  Beverley,  who  just  then  was  superintend 
ing  the  work  of  cleaning  up  an  old  cannon  in  the  fort 
and  mending  some  breaks  in  the  stockade. 

Helm  formed  a  great  liking  for  the  big  Frenchman^ 
whose  breezy  freedom  of  manner  and  expansive  good 
humor  struck  him  favorably  from  the  beginning.  M. 
Roussillon's  ability  to  speak  English  with  considerable 
ease  helped  the  friendship  along,  no  doubt ;  at  all  events 
their  first  interview  ended  with  a  hearty  show  of  good 
fellowship,  and  as  time  passed  they  became  almost  in 
separable  companions  during  M.  Roussillon's  periods 
of  rest  from  his  trading  excursions  among  the  Indians. 
They  played  cards  arid  brewed  hot  drinks  over  which 
they  told  marvelous  stories,  the  latest  one  invariably; 
surpassing  all  its  predecessors. 

Helm  had  an  eye  to  business,  and  turned  M.  Rous 
sillon's  knowledge  of  the  Indians  to  valuable  account, 
so  that  he  soon  had  very  pleasant  relations  with  most 
of  the  tribes  within  reach  of  his  agents.  This  gave  a 
feeling  of  great  security  to  the  people  of  Vincennes. 

86 


A  Fencing  Bout  87 

They  pursued  their  narrow  agricultural  activities  with 
excellent  results  and  redoubled  those  social  gayeties 
which,  even  in  hut  and  cabin  under  all  the  adverse  con 
ditions  of  extreme  frontier  life,  were  dear  to  the  volatile 
and  genial  French  temperament. 

Lieutenant  Beverley  found  much  to  interest  him  in 
the  quaint  town ;  but  the  piece  de  resistance  was  Oncle 
Jazon,  who  proved  to  be  both  fascinating  and  unman 
ageable;  a  hard  nut  to  crack,  yet  possessing  a  kernel 
absolutely  original  in  flavor.  Beverley  visited  him  one 
evening  in  his  hut — it  might  better  be  called  den — a 
curiously  built  thing,  with  walls  of  vertical  poles  set  in 
a  quadrangular  trench  dug  in  the  ground,  and  roofed 
with  grass.  Inside  and  out  it  was  plastered  with  clay, 
and  the  floor  of  dried  mud  was  as  smooth  and  hard  as 
concrete  paving.  In  one  end  there  was  a  wide  fire 
place  grimy  with  soot,  in  the  other  a  mere  peep  hole 
for  a  window ;  a  wooden  bench,  a  bed  of  skins  and  two 
or  three  stools  were  barely  visible  in  the  gloom.  In  the 
doorway  Oncle  Jazon  sat  whittling  a  slender  billet  of 
hickory  into  a  ramrod  for  his  long  flint-lock  American 
rule. 

"Maybe  ye  know  Simon  Kenton,"  said  the  old  man, 
after  he  and  Beverley  had  conversed  for  a  while.,  "see 
ing  that  you  are  from  Kentucky — eh  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do  know  him  well;  he's  a  warm  personal 
friend  of  mine,"  said  Beverley  with  quick  interest,  for 
it  surprised  him  that  Oncle  Jazon  should  know  any 
thing  about  Kenton.  "Do  you  know  him,  Monsieur 
Jazon?" 

Oncle  Jazon  winked  conceitedly  and  sighted  along 


88  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

his  rudimentary  ramrod  to  see  if  it  was  straight;  then 
puckering  his  lips,  as  if  on  the  point  of  whistling,  made 
an  affirmative  noise  quite  impossible  to  spell. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  are  acquainted  with  Kenton," 
said  Beverley.  "Where  did  you  and  he  come  to 
gether?" 

Oncle  Jazon  chuckled  reminiscently  and  scratched 
the  skinless,  cicatrized  spot  where  his  scalp  had  once 
flourished. 

"Oh,  several  places,"  he  answered.  "Ye  see  thet 
hair  a  hangin'  there  on  the  wall?"  He  pointed  at  a 
dry  wisp  dangling  under  a  peg  in  a  log  barely  visible 
by  the  bad  light.  "Well,  thet's  my  scalp,  he !  he !  he !" 
He  snickered  as  if  the  fact  were  a  most  enjoyable 
joke.  "Simon  Kenton  can  tell  ye  about  thet  little 
affair !  The  Indians  thought  I  was  dead,  and  they  took 
my  hair;  but  I  wasn't  dead;  I  was  just  a  givin'  'em  a 
'possum  act.  When  they  was  gone  I  got  up  from  where 
I  was  a  layin*  and  trotted  off.  My  head  was  sore  and 
ventrebleu!  but  I  was  mad,  he !  he !  he !" 

All  this  time  he  spoke  in  French,  and  the  English 
but  poorly  paraphrases  his  odd  turns  of  expression. 
His  grimaces  and  grunts  cannot  even  be  hinted. 

It  was  a  long  story,  as  Beverley  received  it,  told 
scrappily,  but  with  certain  rude  art.  In  the  end  Oncle 
Jazon  said  with  unctuous  self-satisfaction : 

"Accidents  will  happen.  I  got  my  chance  at  that 
damned  Indian  who  skinned  my  head,  and  I  jes  took 
a  bead  on  'im  with  my  old  rifle.  I  can't  shoot  much, 
never  could,  but  I  happened  to  hit  'im  square  in  the 
lef  eye,  what  I  shot  at,  and  it  was  a  hundred  yards. 


A  Fencing  Bout  89 

Down  he  tumbles,  and  I  runs  to  'im  and  finds  my  same 
old  scalp  a  hangin'  to  his  belt.  Well,  I  lifted  off  his 
hair  with  my  knife,  and  untied  mine  from  the  belt,  and 
then  I  had  both  scalps,  he!  he!  he!  You  ask  Simon 
Kenton  when  ye  see  'im.  He  was  along  at  the  same 
time,  and  they  made  'im  run  the  ga'ntlet  and  pretty 
nigh  beat  the  life  out  o'  'im.  Ventrebleu!" 

Beverley  now  recollected  hearing  Kenton  tell  the 
same  grim  story  by  a  camp-fire  in  the  hills  of  Ken 
tucky.  Somehow  it  had  caught  a  new  spirit  in  the 
French  rendering,  which  linked  it  with  the  old  tales  of 
adventure  that  he  had  read  in  his  boyhood,  and  it  sud 
denly  endeared  Oncle  Jazon  to  him.  The  rough  old 
scrap  of  a  man  and  the  powerful  youth  chatted  to 
gether  until  sundown,  smoking  their  pipes,  each  feeling 
for  what  was  best  in  the  other,  half  aware  that  in  the 
future  they  would  be  tested  together  in  the  fire  of  wild 
adventure.  Every  man  is  more  or  less  a  prophet  at 
certain  points  in  his  life. 

Twilight  and  moonlight  were  blending  softly  when 
Beverley,  on  his  way  back  to  the  fort,  departing  from  a 
direct  course,  went  along  the  river's  side  southward  to 
have  a  few  moments  of  reflective  strolling  within  reach 
of  the  water's  pleasant  murmur  and  the  town's  indef 
inite  evening  stir.  Rich  sweetness,  the  gift  of  early 
autumn,  was  on  the  air  blowing  softly  out  of  a  lilac 
west  and  singing  in  the  willow  fringe  that  hung  here 
and  there  over  the  bank. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  river's  wide  flow,  swollen 
by  recent  heavy  rains,  Beverley  saw  a  pirogue,  in  one 
end  of  which  a  dark  figure  swayed  to  the  strokes  of  a 


90  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

paddle.  The  slender  and  shallow  little  craft  was 
bobbing  on  the  choppy  waves  and  taking  a  zig-zag 
course  among  floating  logs  and  masses  of  lighter  drift 
wood,  while  making  slow  but  certain  headway  toward 
the  hither  bank. 

Beverley  took  a  bit  of  punk  and  a  flint  and  steel 
from  his  pocket,  relit  his  pipe  and  stood  watching  the 
skilful  boatman  conduct  his  somewhat  dangerous  voy 
age  diagonally  against  the  rolling  current.  It  was  a 
shifting,  hide-and-seek  scene,  its  features  appearing 
and  disappearing  with  the  action  of  the  waves  and  the 
doubtful  light  reflected  from  fading  clouds  and  sky. 
Now  and  again  the  man  stood  up  in  his  skittish  pi 
rogue,  balancing  himself  with  care  to  use  a  short  pole 
in  shoving  driftwood  out  of  his  way;  and  more  than 
once  he  looked  to  Beverley  as  if  he  had  plunged  head 
long  into  the  dark  water. 

The  spot,  as  nearly  as  it  can  be  fixed,  was  about  two 
hundred  yards  below  where  the  public  road-bridge  at 
present  spans  the  Wabash.  The  bluff  was  then  far  dif 
ferent  from  what  it  is  now,  steeper  and  higher,  with 
less  silt  and  sand  between  it  and  the  water's  edge. 
Indeed,  swollen  as  the  current  was,  a  man  could  stand 
on  the  top  of  the  bank  and  easily  leap  into  the  deep 
water.  At  a  point  near  the  middle  of  the  river  a  great 
mass  of  drift-logs  and  sand  had  long  ago  formed  a  bar 
rier  which  split  the  stream  so  that  one  current  came 
heavily  shoreward  on  the  side  next  the  town  and 
swashed  with  its  muddy  foam,  making  a  swirl  and  eddy 
just  below  where  Beverley  stood. 

The  pirogue  rounded  the  upper  angle  of  this  ob- 


A  Fencing  Bout  91 

struction,  not  without  difficulty  to  its  crew  of  one,  and 
swung  into  the  rapid  shoreward  rush,  as  was  evidently 
planned  for  by  the  steersman,  who  now  paddled  against 
the  tide  with  all  his  might  to  keep  from  being  borne  too 
far  down  stream  for  a  safe  landing  place. 

Beverley  stood  at  ease  idly  and  half  dreamily  looking 
on,  when  suddenly  something  caused  a  catastrophe, 
which  for  a  moment  he  did  not  comprehend.  In  fact 
the  man  in  the  pirogue  came  to  grief,  as  a  man  in  a 
pirogue  is  very  apt  to  do,  and  fairly  somersaulted 
overboard  into  the  water.  Nothing  serious  would  have 
threatened  (for  the  man  could  swim  like  an  otter)  had 
not  a  floating,  half  submerged  log  thrust  up  some  short, 
stiff  stumps  of  boughs,  upon  the  points  of  which  the 
man  struck  heavily  and  was  not  only  hurt,  but  had  his 
clothes  impaled  securely  by  one  of  the  ugly  spears,  so 
that  he  hung  in  a  helpless  position,  while  the  water's 
motion  alternately  lifted  and  submerged  him,  his  arms 
beating  about  wildly. 

When  Beverley  heard  a  strangling  cry  for  help,  he 
pulled  himself  promptly  together,  flung  off  his  coat, 
as  if  by  a  single  motion,  and  leaped  down  the  bank  into 
the  water.  He  was  a  swimmer  whose  strokes  counted 
for  all  that  prodigious  strength  and  excellent  training 
could  afford;  he  rushed  through  the  water  with  long 
sweeps,  making  a  semicircle,  rounding  against  the 
current,  so  as  to  swing  down  upon  the  drowning  man. 

Less  than  a  half-hour  later  a  rumor  by  some  means 
spread  throughout  the  town  that  Father  Beret  and 
Lieutenant  Beverley  were  drowned  in  the  Wabash. 
But  when  a  crowd  gathered  to  verify  the  terrible  news 


92  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

it  turned  out  to  be  untrue.  Gaspard  Roussillon  had 
once  more  distinguished  himself  by  an  exhibition  of 
heroic  nerve  and  muscle. 

"Ventrebleu!  Quel  homme!"  exclaimed  Oncle  Ja- 
zon,  when  told  that  M.  Roussillon  had  come  up  the 
bank  of  the  Wabash  with  Lieutenant  Beverley  under 
one  arm  and  Father  Beret  under  the  other,  both  men 
apparently  dead. 

"Bring  them  to  my  house  immediately,"  M.  Rous 
sillon  ordered,  as  soon  as  they  were  restored  to  con 
sciousness  ;  and  he  shook  himself,  as  a  big  wet  animal 
sometimes  does,  covering  everybody  near  him  with 
muddy  water.  Then  he  led  the  way  with  melodramatic 
strides. 

In  justice  to  historical  accuracy  there  must  be  a 
trifling  reform  of  what  appeared  on  the  face  of  things 
to  be  grandly  true.  Gaspard  Roussillon  actually 
dragged  Father  Beret  and  Lieutenant  Beverley  one  at 
a  time  out  of  the  eddy  water  and  up  the  steep  river 
bank.  That  was  truly  a  great  feat ;  but  the  hero  never 
explained.  When  men  arrived  h?  was  standing  be 
tween  the  collapsed  forms,  panting  and  dripping. 
Doubtless  he  looked  just  as  if  he  had  dropped  them 
from  under  his  arms,  and  why  shouldn't  he  have  the 
benefit  of  a  great  implication  ? 

"I've  saved  them  both/'  he  roared ;  from  which,  or 
course,  the  ready  Creole  imagination  inferred  the  ex 
treme  of  possible  heroic  performance. 

"Bring  them  to  my  house  immediately,"  and  it  was 
accordingly  done. 

The  procession,  headed  by  M.  Roussillon,  moved 


A  Fencing  Bout  93 

noisily,  for  the  French  tongue  must  shake  off  what 
comes  to  it  on  the  thrill  of  every  exciting  moment.  The 
only  silent  Frenchman  is  the  dead  one. 

Father  Beret  was  not  only  well-nigh  drowned,  but 
seriously  hurt.  He  lay  for  a  week  on  a  bed  in  M.  Rous- 
sillon's  house  before  he  could  sit  up.  Alice  hung  over 
him  night  and  day,  scarcely  sleeping  or  eating  until  he 
was  past  all  danger.  As  for  Beverley,  he  shook  off  all 
the  effects  of  his  struggle  in  a  little  while.  Next  day 
he  was  out,  as  well  and  strong  as  ever,  busy  with  the 
affairs  of  his  office.  Nor  was  he  less  happy  on  account 
of  what  the  little  adventure  had  cast  into  his  experience. 
It  is  good  to  feel  that  one  has  done  an  unselfish  deed, 
and  no  young  man's  heart  repels  the  freshness  of  what 
comes  to  him  when  a  beautiful  girl  first  enters  his  life. 

Naturally  enough  Alice  had  some  thoughts  of  Bev 
erley  while  she  was  so  attentively  caring  for  Father 
Beret.  She  had  never  before  seen  a  man  like  him,  nor 
had  she  read  of  one.  Compared  with  Rene  de  Ronville, 
the  best  youth  of  her  acquaintance,  he  was  in  every 
way  superior;  this  was  too  evident  for  analysis;  but 
referred  to  the  romantic  standard  taken  out  of  the 
novels  she  had  read,  he  somehow  failed;  and  yet  he 
loomed  bravely  in  her  vision,  not  exactly  a  knight  of 
the  class  she  had  most  admired,  still  unquestionably  a 
hero  of  large  proportions. 

Beverley  stepped  in  for  a  few  minutes  every  day  to 
see  Father  Beret,  involuntarily  lengthening  his  visit  by 
a  sliding  ratio  as  he  became  better  acquainted.  He 
began  to  enjoy  the  priest's  conversation,  with  its  sly 
worldly  wisdom  cropping  up  through  fervid  religious 


<M  Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

sentiments  and  quaint  humor.  Alice  must  have  inter 
ested  him  more  than  he  was  fully  aware  of ;  for  his  eyes 
followed  her,  as  she  came  and  went,  with  a  curious 
criticism  of  her  half-savage  costume  and  her  springy, 
Dryad-like  suppleness,  which  reminded  him  of  the  shy 
est  and  gracefulest  wild  birds;  and  yet  a  touch  of  refine 
ment,  the  subtlest  and  best,  showed  in  all  her  ways.  He 
studied  her,  as  he  would  have  studied  a  strange,  showy 
and  originally  fragrant  flower,  or  a  bird  of  oddly  at 
tractive  plumage.  While  she  said  little  to  him  or  to 
anyone  else  in  his  presence,  he  became  aware  of  the 
willfulness  and  joyous  lightness  which  played  on  her 
nature's  changeable  surface.  He  wondered  at  her  in 
fluence  over  Father  Beret,  whom  she  controlled  ap 
parently  without  effort.  But  in  due  time  he  began  to 
feel  a  deeper  character,  a  broader  intelligence,  behind 
her  superficial  sauvagerie ;  and  he  found  that  she  really 
had  no  mean  smattering  of  books  in  the  lighter  vein. 

A  little  thing  happened  which  further  opened  his 
eyes  and  increased  the  interest  that  her  beauty  and 
elementary  charm  of  style  aroused  in  him  gradually, 
apace  with  their  advancing  acquaintanceship. 

Father  Beret  had  got  well  and  returned  to  his  hut 
and  his  round  of  spiritual  duties ;  but  Beverley  came  to 
Roussillon  place  every  day  all  the  same.  For  a  wonder 
Madame  Roussillon  liked  him,  and  at  most  times  held 
the  scolding  side  of  her  tongue  when  he  was  present. 
Jean,  too,  made  friendly  advances  whenever  opportun 
ity  afforded.  Of  course  Alice  gave  him  just  the  frank 
cordiality  of  hospitable  welcome  demanded  by  frontier 
conditions.  She  scarcely  knew  whether  she  liked  him 


A  Fencing  Bout  95 

or  not;  but  he  had  a  treasury  of  information  from 
which  he  was  enriching  her  with  liberal  carelessness 
day  by  day.  The  hungriest  part  of  her  mind  was  being 
sumptuously  banqueted  at  his  expense.  Mere  intel 
lectual  greediness  drew  her  to  him. 

Naturally  they  soon  threw  off  such  troubling  formal 
ities  as  at  first  rose  between  them,  and  began  to  dis 
close  to  each  other  their  true  characteristics.  Alice 
found  in  Beverley  a  large  target  for  the  missiles  of  her 
clever  and  tantalizing  perversity.  He  in  turn  practiced 
a  native  dignity  and  an  acquired  superiority  of  manner 
to  excellent  effect.  It  was  a  meeting  of  Greek  with 
Greek  in  a  new  Arcadia.  To  him  here  was  Diana, 
strong,  strange,  simple,  even  crude  almost  to  natural 
ness,  yet  admirably  pure  in  spirit  and  imbued  with 
highest  womanly  aspirations.  To  her  Beverley  rep 
resented  the  great  outside  area  of  life.  He  came  to 
her  from  wonderland,  beyond  the  wide  circle  of  house 
less  woods  and  prairies.  He  represented  gorgeous 
cities,  teeming  parks  of  fashion,  boulevards,  salons, 
halls  of  social  splendor,  the  theater,  the  world  of  wo 
man's  dreams. 

Now,  there  is  an  antagonism,  vague  yet  powerful, 
generated  between  natures  thus  cast  together  from  the 
opposite  poles  of  experience  and  education :  an  antago 
nism  practically  equivalent  to  the  most  vigorous  at 
traction.  What  one  knows  the  other  is  but  half  aware 
of;  neither  knowledge  nor  ignorance  being  mutual, 
there  is  a  scintillation  of  exchange,  from  opposing 
vantage  grounds,  followed  by  harmless  snaps  of  thun 
der.  Culture  and  refinement  t^e  on  airs — it  is  the 


96  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

deepest  artificial  instinct  of  enlightenment  to  pose — in 
the  presence  of  naturalness;  and  there  is  a  certain 
style  of  ignorance  which  attitudinizes  before  the  gate 
of  knowledge.  The  return  to  nature  has  always  been 
the  dream  of  the  conventionalized  soul,  while  the  sim 
ple  Arcadian  is  forever  longing  for  the  maddening 
honey  of  sophistication. 

Innate  jealousies  strike  together  like  flint  and  steel 
dashing  off  sparks  by  which  nearly  everything  that  life 
can  warm  its  core  withal  is  kindled  and  kept  burning. 
What  I  envy  in  my  friend  I  store  for  my  best  use.  I 
thrust  and  parry,  not  to  kill,  but  to  learn  my  adver 
sary's  superior  feints  and  guards.  And  this  hint  of 
sword  play  leads  back  to  what  so  greatly  surprised  ancS 
puzzled  Beverley  one  day  when  he  chanced  to  be 
examining  the  pair  of  colechemardes  on  the  wall. 

He  took  one  down,  and  handling  it  with  the  inde 
scribable  facility  possible  to  none  save  a  practical 
swordsman,  remarked : 

"There's  a  world  of  fascination  in  these  things;  I 
like  nothing  better  than  a  bout  at  fencing.  Does  your 
father  practice  the  art  ?" 

"I  have  no  father,  no  mother,"  she  quickly  said;  "but 
good  Papa  Roussillon  does  like  a  little  exercise  with 
the  colechemarde." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  I  shall  ask  to  teach  him  a 
trick  or  two,"  Beverley  responded  in  the  lightest  mood. 
"When  will  he  return  from  the  woods  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you;  he's  very  irregular  in  such  mat 
ters,"  she  said.  Then,  with  a  smile  half  banter  and  half 
challenge,  she  added;  "if  you  are  really  dying  fof 


A  Fencing  Bout  97 

some  exercise,  you  shall  not  have  to  wait  for  him  to 
come  home,  I  assure  you,  Monsieur  Beverley." 

"Oh,  it's  Monsieur  de  Ronville,  perhaps,  that  you 
will  offer  up  as  a  victim  to  my  skill  and  address,"  he 
slyly  returned ;  for  he  was  suspecting  that  a  love  affair 
in  some  stage  of  progress  lay  between  her  and  Rene. 

She  blushed  violently,  but  quickly  overcoming  a 
combined  rush  of  surprise  and  anger,  added  with  an 
emphasis  as  charming  as  it  was  unexpected. 

"I  myself  am,  perhaps,  swordsman  enough  to  satisfy 
the  impudence  and  vanity  of  Monsieur  Beverley,  Lieu 
tenant  in  the  American  army." 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle;  forgive  me,  I  beg  of 
you,"  he  exclaimed,  earnestly  modulating  his  voice  to 
sincerest  beseechment;  "I  really  did  not  mean  to  be 
impudent,  nor — " 

Her  vivacity  cleared  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"No  apologies,  I  command  you,"  she  interposed. 
"We  will  have  them  after  I  have  taught  you  a  fencing 
lesson." 

From  a  shelf  she  drew  down  a  pair  of  foils  and  pre 
senting  the  hilts,  bade  him  take  his  choice. 

"There  isn't  any  difference  between  them  that  I 
know  of,"  she  said,  and  then  added  archly ;  "but  you 
will  feel  better  at  last,  when  all  is  over  and  the  sting  of 
defeat  tingles  through  you,  if  you  are  conscious  of 
having  used  every  sensible  precaution." 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes,  trying  to  catch 
what  was  in  her  mind,  but  there,  was  a  bewildering 
glamour  playing  across  those  gray,  opal-tinted  wells  oi 


98  Alice  ot  Old  Vmcennes 

mystery,  from  which  he  could  draw  only  a  mischievous 
smile-glint,  direct,  daring,  irresistible. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  one  of  the  foils,  "what  do 
you  really  mean?  Is  it  a  challenge  without  room  for 
honorable  retreat?" 

"The  time  for  parley  is  past,"  she  replied,  "follow 
:«ne  to  the  battle-ground," 

She  led  the  way  to  a  pleasant  little  court  in  the  rear 
of  the  cabin's  yard,  a  space  between  two  wings  and 
a  vine-covered  trellis,  beyond  which  lay  a  well  kept 
vineyard  and  vegetable  garden.  Here  she  turned  about 
and  faced  him,  poising  her  foil  with  a  fine  grace. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  she  inquired. 

He  tried  again  to  force  a  way  into  the  depths  of  her 
eyes  with  his;  but  he  might  as  well  have  attacked  the 
sun ;  so  he  stood  in  a  confusion  of  not  very  well  denned 
feelings,  undecided,  hesitating,  half  expecting  that 
there  would  be  some  laughable  turn  to  end  the  affair. 

"Are  you  afraid,  Monsieur  Beverley?"  she  de 
manded  after  a  short  waiting  in  silence. 

He  laughed  now  and  whipped  the  air  with  his  foil. 

"You  certainly  are  not  in  earnest  ?"  he  said  interrog 
atively.  "Do  you  really  mean  that  you  want  to  fence 
with  me?" 

"If  you  think  because  I'm  only  a  g?rl  you  can  easily 
beat  me,  try  it,"  she  tauntingly  replied  making  a  level 
thrust  toward  his  breast. 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  parried,  and  then  a  merry  clink 
ing  and  twinkling  of  steel  blades  kept  time  to  their 
swift  movements.  Instantly,  by  the  sure  sense  which  if 
half  sight,  half  feeling — the  sense  that  guides  the  ex« 


A  fencing  Bout  99 

pert  feneer's  hand  and  wrist — Beverley  knew  that  he 
had  probably  more  than  his  match,  and  in  ten  seconds 
his  attack  was  met  by  a  time  thrust  in  opposition  which 
touched  him  sharply. 

Alice  sprang  far  back,  lowered  her  point  and 
laughed. 

"Je  vous  salue,  Monsieur  Beverley!"  she  cried,  with 
childlike  show  of  delight.  "Did  you  feel  the  button?" 

"Yes,  I  felt  it,"  he  said  with  frank  acknowledgment 
in  his  voice,  "it  was  cleverly  done.  Now  give  me  a 
chance  to  redeem  myself.'* 

He  began  more  carefully  and  found  that  she,  too, 
was  on  her  best  mettle ;  but  it  was  a  short  bout,  as  be 
fore.  Alice  seemed  to  give  him  an  easy  opening  and 
he  accepted  it  with  a  thrust ;  then  something  happened 
that  he  did  not  understand.  The  point  of  his  foil  was 
somehow  caught  under  his  opponent's  hilt-guard  while 
her  blade  seemed  to  twist  around  his ;  at  the  same  time 
there  was  a  wring  and  a  jerk,  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  before  felt,  and  he  was  disarmed,  his  wrist  and 
fingers  aching  with  the  wrench  they  had  received. 

Of  course  the  thing  was  not  new ;  he  had  been  dis 
armed  before;  but  her  trick  of  doing  it  was  quite  a 
mystery  to  him,  altogether  different  from  any  that  he 
had  ever  seen. 

"Foils  me  pardonneres,  Monsieur,"  she  mockingly 
exclaimed,  picking  up  his  weapon  and  offering  the  hilt 
to  him.  "Here  is  your  sword !" 

"Keep  it,"  he  said,  folding  his  arms  and  trying  to 
iook  unconcerned,  "you  have  captured  it  fairly.  I  aw 
at  your  mercy ;  be  kind  to  me." 


ioo          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Madame  Roussillon  and  Jean,  the  hunchback,  hear 
ing  the  racket  of  the  foils  had  come  out  to  see  and  were 
standing  agape. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Alice,"  said  the  dame  in 
scolding  approval  of  what  she  had  done ;  "girls  do  not 
fence  with  gentlemen." 

"This  girl  does,"  said  Alice. 

"And  with  extreme  disaster  to  this  gentleman,"  said 
Beverley,  laughing  in  a  tone  of  discomfiture  and  res 
ignation. 

"Ah,  Mo'sieu',  there's  nothing  but  disaster  where 
she  goes,"  complained  Madame  Roussillon,  "she  is  a 
destroyer  of  everything.  Only  yesterday  she  dropped 
my  pink  bowl  and  broke  it,  the  only  one  I  had." 

"And  just  to  think,"  said  Beverley,  "what  would 
have  been  the  condition  of  my  heart  had  we  been  using 
rapiers  instead  of  leather-buttoned  foils!  She  would 
have  spitted  it  through  the  very  center." 

"Like  enough,"  replied  the  dame  indifferently.  "She 
wouldn't  wince,  either, — not  she." 

Alice  ran  into  the  house  with  the  foils  and  Beverley 
followed. 

"We  must  try  it  over  again  some  day  soon,"  he  said; 
"I  find  that  you  can  show  me  a  few  points.  Where 
did  you  learn  to  fence  so  admirably?  Is  Monsieur 
Ronssillon  your  master?" 

"Indeed  he  isn't,"  she  quickly  replied,  "he  is  but  a 
bungling  swordsman.  My  master — but  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  tell  you  who  has  taught  me  the  little  I  know." 

"Well,  whoever  he  is  I  should  be  glad  to  have  les« 
•ons  from  him.*" 


A  Fencing  Bout  101 

"But  you'll  never  get  them/' 

"Why?" 

"Because." 

"A  woman's  ultimatum/' 

"As  good  as  a  man's!"  she  bridled  prettily;  "and 
sometimes  better — at  the  foils  for  example.  Vous— 
comprenez,  n'est  ce  pas?" 

He  laughed  heartily. 

"Yes,  your  point  reaches  me,"  he  said,  "but  sperat 
et  in  saeva  victns  gladiatur  arena,  as  the  old  Latin  poet 
wisely  remarks/'  The  quotation  was  meant  to  tease 
her. 

"Yes,  Montaigne  translated  that  or  something  in  his 
book,"  she  commented  with  prompt  erudition.  "I  un 
derstand  it." 

Beverley  looked  amazed. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Montaigne?"  he  de 
manded  with  a  blunt  brevity  amounting  to  something 
like  gruffness. 

"Sh',  Monsieur,  not  too  loud,"  she  softly  protested, 
looking  around  to  see  that  neither  Madame  Roussillon 
nor  Jean  had  followed  them  into  the  main  room.  "It 
is  not  permitted  that  I  read  that  old  book;  but  they  do' 
not  hide  it  from  me,  because  they  think  I  can't  make 
out  its  dreadful  spelling." 

She  smiled  so  that  her  cheeks  drew  their  dimples 
deep  into  the  delicately  tinted  pink-and-brown,  where 
wind  and  sun  and  wholesome  exercise  had  set  the  seal 
of  absolute  health,  and  took  from  a  niche  in  the  logs 
of  the  wall  a  stained  and  dog-eared  volume.  He 


1O2          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

looked,  and  it  was,  indeed,  the  old  saint  and  sinner, 
Montaigne. 

Involuntarily  he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  girl  from 
head  to  foot,  comparing  her  show  of  knowledge  with 
the  outward  badges  of  abject  rusticity,  and  even  wild- 
ness,  with  which  she  was  covered. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  mystery." 

"You  think  it  surprising  that  I  can  read  a  book! 
Frankly  I  can't  understand  half  of  this  one.  I  read  it 
because — well  just  because  they  want  me  to  read  about 
nothing  but  sickly  old  saints  and  woe-begone  penitents. 
I  like  something  lively.  What  do  I  care  for  all  that 
uninteresting  religious  stuff?" 

"Montaigne  is  decidedly  lively  in  spots,"  Beverley 
remarked.  "I  shouldn't  think  a  girl — I  shouldn't  think 
you'd  particularly  enjoy  his  humors." 

"I  don't  care  for  the  book  at  all,"  she  said,  flushing 
quickly,  "only  I  seem  to  learn  about  the  world  from 
it.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  it  lifted  me  up  high  above 
all  this  wild,  lonely  and  tiresome  country,  so  that  I 
can  see  far  off  where  things  are  different  and  beautiful. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  novels;  and  they  don't  permit 
me  to  read  them  either ;  but  all  the  same  I  do." 

When  Beverley,  taking  his  leave,  passed  through  the 
gate  at  Roussillon  place,  he  met  Rene  de  Ronville  going 
in.  It  was  a  notable  coincidence  that  each  young  man 
felt  something  troublesome  rise  in  his  throat  as  he 
looked  into  the  other's  eyes. 

A  week  of  dreamy  autumn  weather  came  on,  during 
which  Beverley  managed  to  be  with  Alice  a  great  deal, 
mostly  sitting  on  the  Roussillon  gallery,  where  the 


A  Fencing  Bout  103 

fading  vine  leaves  made  fairy  whispering,  and  where 
the  tempered  breeze  blew  deliciously  cool  from  over  the 
distant  multi-colored  woods.  The  men  of  Vincennes 
were  gathering  their  Indian  corn  early  to  dry  it  on  the 
cob  for  grating  into  winter  meal.  Many  women  made 
wine  from  the  native  grapes  and  from  the  sweeter  and 
richer  fruit  of  imported  vines.  Madame  Roussillon 
and  Alice  stained  their  hands  a  deep  purple  during  the 
pressing  season,  and  Beverley  found  himself  engaged 
in  helping  them  handle  the  juicy  crop,  while  around 
the  overflowing  earthen  pots  the  wild  bees,  wasps  and 
hornets  hummed  with  an  incessant,  jarring  monotony. 

Jean,  the  hunchback,  gathered  ample  stores  of  hick 
ory  nuts,  walnuts,  hazel-nuts  and  pin-oak  acorns.  In 
deed,  the  whole  population  of  the  village  made  a  great 
spurt  of  industry  just  before  the  falling  of  winter; 
and  presently,  when  every  preparation  had  been  com 
pleted  for  the  dreaded  cold  season,  M.  Roussillon  car 
ried  out  his  long-cherished  plan,  and  gave  a  great  party 
at  the  river  house.  After  the  most  successful  trading 
experience  of  all  his  life  he  felt  irrepressibly  liberal. 

"Let's  have  one  more  roaring  good  time,"  he  said, 
"that's  what  life  is  for." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  MAYOR'S  PARTY 

Beverley  was  so  surprised  and  confused  in  his  mind 
by  the  ease  with  which  he  had  been  mastered  at  sword- 
play  by  a  mere  girl,  that  he  felt  as  if  just  coming  out 
of  a  dream.  In  fact  the  whole  affair  seemed  unreal, 
yet  so  vivid  and  impressive  in  all  its  main  features, 
that  he  could  not  emerge  from  it  and  look  it  calmly  over 
from  without.  His  experience  with  women  had  not 
prepared  him  for  a  ready  understanding  and  acceptance 
of  a  girl  like  Alice.  While  he  was  fully  aware  of  her 
beauty,  freshness,  vivacity  and  grace,  this  Amazonian 
strength  of  hers,  this  boldness  of  spirit,  this  curious 
mixture  of  frontier  crudeness  and  a  certain  adumbra 
tion — so  to  call  it — of  patrician  sensibilities  and  aspira 
tions,  affected  him  both  pleasantly  and  unpleasantly. 
He  did  not  sympathize  promptly  with  her  semi-bar 
baric  costume;  she  seemed  not  gently  feminine,  as 
compared  with  the  girls  of  Virginia  and  Maryland. 
He  resented  her  muscular  development  and  her  inde 
pendent  disposition.  She  was  far  from  coarseness, 
however,  and,  indeed,  a  trace  of  subtle  refinement,  al 
though  not  conventional,  imbued  her  whole  character. 

But  why  was  he  thinking  so  critically  about  her? 
Had  his  selfishness  received  an  incurable  shock  from 
the  button  of  her  foil?  A  healthy  young  man  of  the 
right  sort  is  apt  to  be  jealous  of  his  physical  prowess 
— touch  him  there  and  he  will  turn  the  world  over  to 

104 


The  Mayor's  Party  105 

right  himself  in  his  own  admiration  and  yours.  But  to 
be  beaten  on  his  highest  ground  of  virility  by  a  dimple- 
faced  maiden  just  leaving  her  teens  could  not  offer 
Beverley  any  open  way  to  recoupment  of  damages. 

He  tried  to  shake  her  out  of  his  mind,  as  a  bit  of 
pretty  and  troublesome  rubbish,  what  time  he  pursued 
his  not  very  exacting  military  duties.  But  the  more  he 
shook  the  tighter  she  clung,  and  the  oftener  he  went 
to  see  her. 

Helm  was  a  good  officer  in  many  respects,  and  his 
patriotism  was  of  the  best;  but  he  liked  jolly  com 
pany,  a  glass  of  something  strong  and  a  large  share  of 
ease.  Detroit  lay  many  miles  northeastward  across  the 
wilderness,  and  the  English,  he  thought,  would  scarcely 
come  so  far  to  attack  his  little  post,  especially  now 
that  most  of  the  Indians  in  the  intervening  country  had 
declared  in  favor  of  the  Americans.  Recently,  too,  the 
weather  had  been  favoring  him  by  changing  from  wet 
to  dry,  so  that  the  upper  Wabash  and  its  tributaries 
were  falling  low  and  would  soon  be  very  difficult  to 
navigate  with  large  batteaux. 

Very  little  was  done  to  repair  the  stockade  and  di 
lapidated  remnant  of  a  blockhouse.  There  were  no 
sufficient  barracks,  a  mere  shed  in  one  angle  serving 
for  quarters,  and  the  old  cannon  could  not  have  been 
used  to  any  effect  in  case  of  attack.  As  for  the  gar 
rison,  it  was  a  nominal  quantity,  made  up  mostly  of 
men  who  preferred  hunting  and  fishing  to  the  merest 
pretense  of  military  duty. 

Gaspard  Roussillon  assumed  to  know  everything 
about  Indian  affairs  and  the  condition  of  the  English 


Alice  ot  Old  Vmcenncs 

at  Detroit.  His  optimistic  eloquence  lulled  Helm  to 
a  very  pleasant  sense  of  security.  Beverley  was  not 
so  easy  to  satisfy ;  but  his  suggestions  regarding  mili 
tary  discipline  and  a  vigorous  prosecution  of  repairs 
to  the  blockhouse  and  stockade  were  treated  with  dila 
tory  geniality  by  his  superior  officer.  The  soft  wonder 
of  a  perfect  Indian  summer  glorified  land,  river  and 
sky.  Why  not  dream  and  bask  ?  Why  not  drink  ex 
hilarating  toddies? 

Meantime  the  entertainment  to  be  given  by  Gaspard 
Roussillon  occupied  everybody's  imagination  to  an  un 
usual  extent.  Rene  de  Ronville,  remembering  but  not 
heeding  the  doubtful  success  of  his  former  attempt, 
Went  long  beforehand  to  claim  Alice  as  his  partenaire; 
but  she  flatly  refused  him,  once  more  reminding  him  of 
his  obligations  to  little  Adrienne  Bourcier.  He  would 
not  be  convinced. 

"You  are  bound  to  me,"  he  said,  "you  promised  be 
fore,  you  know,  and  the  party  was  but  put  off.  I 
hold  you  to  it;  you  are  my  partenaire,  and  I  am  yours, 
you  can't  deny  that." 

"No  you  are  not  my  partenaire,"  she  firmly  said; 
then  added  lightly,  "Feu  mon  partenaire,  you  are  dead 
and  buried  as  my  partner  at  that  dance." 

He  glowered  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  then 
said: 

"It  is  Lieutenant  Beverley,  I  suppose." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  contemptuous  look,  but  turned 
it  instantly  into  one  of  her  tantalizing  smiles. 

"Do  you  imagine  that?"  she  demanded. 


The  Mayor's  Party  107 

"Imagine  it !  I  know  it,"  he  said  with  a  hot  flush. 
"Have  I  no  sense?" 

"Precious  little,"  she  replied  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"You  think  so." 

"Go  to  Father  Beret,  tell  him  everything,  and  then 
ask  him  what  he  thinks,"  she  said  in  a  calm,  even  tone, 
her  face  growing  serious. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence. 

She  had  touched  Rene's  vulnerable  spot;  he  was 
nothing  if  not  a  devout  Catholic,  and  his  conscience 
rooted  itself  in  what  good  Father  Beret  had  taught  him. 

The  church,  no  matter  by  what  name  it  goes,  Cath 
olic  or  Protestant,  has  a  saving  hold  on  the  deepest 
inner  being  of  its  adherents.  No  grip  is  so  hard  to 
shake  off  as  that  of  early  religious  convictions.  The 
still,  small  voice  coming  down  from  the  times 
"When  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night,"  in 
oldjudea,  passes  through  the  priest,  the  minister,  the 
preacher ;  it  echoes  in  cathedral,  church,  open-air  meet 
ing;  it  gently  and  mysteriously  imparts  to  human  life 
the  distinctive  quality  which  is  the  exponent  of  Chris 
tian  civilization.  Upon  the  receptive  nature  of  chil 
dren  it  makes  an  impress  that  forever  afterward  ex 
hales  a  fragrance  and  irradiates  a  glory  for  the  saving 
of  the  nations. 

Father  Beret  was  the  humble,  self-effacing,  never- 
tiring  agent  of  good  in  his  community.  He  preached 
in  a  tender  sing-song  voice  the  sweet  monotonies  of 
his  creed  and  the  sublime  truths  of  Christ's  code.  He 
was  indeed  the  spiritual  father  of  his  people.  No  wonder 
Rene's  scowling  expression  changed  to  one  of  abject 


io8          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

self-concern  when  the  priest's  name  was  suddenly 
connected  with  his  mood.  The  confessional  loomed  up 
before  the  eyes  of  his  conscience,  and  his  knees  smote 
together,  spiritually  if  not  physically. 

"Now,"  said  Alice,  brusquely,  but  with  sweet  and 
gentle  firmness,  "go  to  your  fiancee,  go  to  pretty  and 
good  Adrienne,  and  ask  her  to  be  your  partenaire. 
Refresh  your  conscience  with  a  noble  draught  of  duty 
and  make  that  dear  little  girl  overflow  with  joy.  Go, 
Rene  de  Ronville." 

In  making  over  what  she  said  into  English,  the  trans 
lation  turns  out  to  be  but  a  sonorous  paraphrase.  Her 
French  was  of  that  mixed  Creole  sort,  a  blending  of  lin 
guistic  elegance  and  patois,  impossible  to  imitate.  Like 
herself  it  was  beautiful,  crude,  fascinating,  and  some 
thing  in  it  impressed  itself  as  unimpeachable,  despite 
the  broken  and  incongruous  diction.  Rene  felt  his 
soul  cowering,  even  slinking ;  but  he  fairly  maintained 
a  good  face,  and  went  away  without  saying  another 
word. 

"del,  del,  how  beautiful  she  is !"  he  thought,  as  he 
walked  along  the  narrow  street  in  the  dreamy  sunshine. 
"But  she  is  not  for  me,  not  for  me." 

He  shook  himself  and  tried  to  be  cheerful.  In  fact 
lie  hummed  a  Creole  ditty,  something  about 

"La  belle  Jeanette,  qu'  a  brisemon  coeur." 

Days  passed,  and  at  last  the  time  of  the  great  event 
arrived.  It  was  a  frosty  night,  clear,  sparkling  with 
stars,  a  keen  breath  cutting  down  from  the  northwest 


The  Mayor's  Party  109 

M.  Roussillon,  Madame  Roussillon,  Alice  and  Lieu 
tenant  Beverley  went  together  to  the  river  house, 
whither  they  had  been  preceded  by  almost  the  entirt 
population  of  Vincennes.  Some  fires  had  been  built 
outside ;  the  crowd  proving  too  great  for  the  building's 
capacity,  as  there  had  to  be  ample  space  for  the  dancers. 
Merry  groups  hovered  around  the  flaming  logs,  while 
within  the  house  a  fiddle  sang  its  simple  and  ravishing 
tunes.  Everybody  talked  and  laughed ;  it  was  a  lively 
racket  of  clashing  voices  and  rhythmical  feet. 

You  would  have  been  surprised  to  find  that  Oncle 
Jazon  was  the  fiddler;  but  there  he  sat,  perched  on  a 
high  stool  in  one  corner  of  the  large  room,  sawing 
away  as  if  for  dear  life,  his  head  wagging,  his  elbow 
leaping  back  and  forth,  while  his  scalpless  crown  shone 
like  the  side  of  a  peeled  onion  and  his  puckered  mouth 
wagged  grotesquely  from  side  to  side  keeping  time  to 
his  tuneful  scraping. 

When  the  Roussillon  party  arrived  it  attracted  con 
densed  attention.  Its  importance,  naturally  of  the 
greatest  in  the  assembled  popular  mind,  was  enhanced 
— as  mathematicians  would  say,  to  the  nth  power — 
by  the  gown  of  Alice.  It  was  resplendent  indeed  in  the 
simple,  unaccustomed  eyes  upon  which  it  flashed  with 
a  buff  silken  glory.  Matrons  stared  a*  it;  maidens 
gazed  with  fascinated  and  jealous  vision;  men  young 
and  old  let  their  eyes  take  full  liberty.  It  was  as  if  a 
queen,  arrayed  in  a  robe  of  state,  had  entered  that 
dingy  log  edifice,  an  apparition  of  dazzling  an4  awe- 
inspiring  beauty.  Oncle  Jazon  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  snapped  his  tune  short  off.  The  dancers  swung 


no          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

together  and  stopped  in  confusion.  But  she,  fortified 
by  a  woman's  strongest  bulwark,  the  sense  of  resplen 
dency,  appeared  quite  unconscious  of  herself. 

Little  Adrienne,  hanging  in  blissful  delight  upon 
Rene's  strong  arm,  felt  the  stir  of  excitement  and 
wondered  what  was  the  matter,  being  too  short  to 
see  over  the  heads  of  those  around  her. 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  she  cried,  tiptoeing  and 
tugging  at  Tier  companion's  sleeve.  "Tell  me,  Rene, 
tell  me,  I  say." 

Rene  was  gazing  in  dumb  admiration  into  which 
there  swept  a  powerful  anger,  like  a  breath  of  flame. 
He  recollected  how  Alice  had  refused  to  wear  that 
dress  when  he  had  asked  her,  and  now  she  had  it  on. 
Moreover,  there  she  stood  beside  Lieutenant  Beverley, 
holding  his  arm,  looking  up  into  his  face,  smiling, 
speaking  to  him. 

"I  think  you  might  tell  me  what  has  happened," 
said  Adrienne,  pouting  and  still  plucking  at  his  arm. 
"I  can't  see  a  thing,  and  you  won't  tell  me." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  he  presently  answered,  rather 
fretfully.  Then  he  stooped,  lowered  his  voice  and 
added;  "it's  Mademoiselle  Roussillon  all  dressed  up 
like  a  bride  or  something.  She's  got  on  a  buff  silk 
dress  that  Mo'sieu'  Roussillon's  mother  had  in  France." 

"How  beautiful  she  must  look!"  cried  the  girl.  "I 
wish  I  could  see  her." 

Rene  put  a  hand  on  each  side  of  her  slender  waist 
and  lifted  her  high,  so  that  her  pretty  head  rose  above 
the  crowding  people.  Alice  chanced  to  turn  her  face 
that  way  just  then  and  saw  the  unconventional  per- 


The  Mayor's  Party  ill 

formance.  Her  eyes  met  those  of  Adrienne  and  she 
gave  a  nod  of  smiling  recognition.  It  was  a  rose  beam 
ing  upon  a  gilliflower. 

M.  Roussillon  naturally  understood  that  all  this  stir 
and  crowding  to  see  was  but  another  demonstration  of 
his  personal  popularity.  He  bowed  and  waved  a  vast 
hand. 

But  the  master  of  ceremonies  called  loudly  for  the 
dancers  to  take  their  places.  Oncle  Jazon  attacked  his 
fiddle  again  with  startling  energy.  Those  who  were 
not  to  dance  formed  a  compact  double  line  around  the 
wall,  the  shorter  ones  in  front,  the  taller  in  the  rear. 
And  what  a  scene  it  was!  but  no  person  present  re 
garded  it  as  in  any  way  strange  or  especially  pic 
turesque,  save  as  to  the  gown  of  Alice,  which  was  now 
floating  and  whirling  in  time  to  Oncle  Jazon's  mad 
music.  The  people  outside  the  house  cheerfully 
awaited  their  turn  to  go  in  while  an  equal  number 
went  forth  to  chant  and  sing  around  the  fires. 

Beverley  was  in  a  young  man's  seventh  heaven.  The 
angels  formed  a  choir  circling  around  his  heart,  and 
their  song  brimmed  his  universe  from  horizon  to 
horizon. 

When  he  called  at  Roussillon  place,  and  Alice  ap 
peared  so  beautifully  and  becomingly  robed,  it  was 
another  memorable  surprise.  She  flashed  a  new  and 
subtly  stimulating  light  upon  him.  The  old  gown, 
rich  in  subdued  splendor  of  lace  and  brocade,  was  orna 
mented  at  the  throat  with  a  heavy  band  of  pearls,  just 
above  which  could  be  seen  a  trace  of  the  gold  chain 
that  supported  her  portrait  locket.  There,  too,  with  a 


112          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

not  unbecoming  gleam  of  barbaric  colors,  shone  the 
string  of  porcupine  beads  to  which  the  Indian  charm- 
stone  hidden  in  her  bosom  was  attached.  It  all  har 
monized  with  the  time,  the  place,  the  atmosphere.  Any 
where  else  it  would  have  been  preposterous  as  a  deco 
rative  presentment,  but  here,  in  this  little  nook  where 
the  coureurs  de  bois,  the  half-breeds,  the  traders  and 
the  missionaries  had  founded  a  centre  of  assembly,  it 
was  the  best  possible  expression  in  the  life  so  formed 
at  hap-hazard,  and  so  controlled  by  the  coarsest  and 
narrowest  influences.  To  Fitzhugh  Beverley,  of  Bev- 
erley  Hall,  the  picture  conveyed  immediately  a  sweet 
and  pervading  influence. 

Alice  looked  superbly  tall,  stately  and  self-possessed 
in  her  transforming  costume,  a  woman  of  full  stature, 
her  countenance  gravely  demure  yet  reserving  near  the 
surface  the  playful  dimples  and  mischievous  smiles  so 
characteristic  of  her  more  usual  manner.  A  sudden 
mood  of  the  varium  et  mutabile  semper  femina  had 
led  her  to  wear  the  dress,  and  the  mood  still  illuminated 
her. 

Beverley  stood  before  her  frankly  looking  and  admir 
ing.  The  underglow  in  her  cheeks  deepened  and  spread 
over  her  perfect  throat;  her  eyes  met  his  a  second, 
then  shyly  avoided  him.  He  hardly  could  have  been 
sure  which  was  master,  her  serenity  or  her  girlish  de 
light  in  being  attractively  dressed ;  but  there  could  be 
no  doubt  as  to  her  self-possession;  for,  saving  the 
pretty  blush  under  his  almost  rude  gaze  of  admiration, 
she  bore  herself  as  firmly  as  any  fine  lady  he  remem 
bered. 


The  Mayor's  Party  113 

They  walked  together  to  the  river  house,  she  daintily 
holding  up  her  skirts,  under  the  insistent  verbal  direc 
tion  of  Madame  Roussillon,  and  at  the  same  time  keep 
ing  a  light,  strangely  satisfying  touch  on  his  arm. 
When  they  entered  the  room  there  was  no  way  for 
Beverley  to  escape  full  consciousness  of  the  excite 
ment  they  aroused;  but  M.  Roussillon's  assumption 
broke  the  force  of  what  would  have  otherwise  been 
extremely  embarrassing. 

"It  is  encouraging,  very  encouraging,"  murmured 
the  big  man  to  Beverley  in  the  midst  of  the  staring 
and  scrambling  and  craning  of  necks,  "to  have  my 
people  admire  and  love  me  so;  it  goes  to  the  middle 
of  my  heart."  And  again  he  bowed  and  waved  his 
hand  with  an  all-including  gesture,  while  he  swept  his 
eyes  over  the  crowd. 

Alice  and  Beverley  were  soon  in  the  whirl  of  the 
dance,  forgetful  of  everything  but  an  exhilaration 
stirred  to  its  utmost  by  Oncle  Jazon's  music. 

A  side  remark  here  may  be  of  interest  to  those  read 
ers  who  enjoy  the  dream  that  on  some  fortunate  day 
they  will  invade  a  lonely  nook,  where  amid  dust  and 
cobwebs,  neglected  because  unrecognized,  reposes  a 
masterpiece  of  Stradivari  or  some  other  great  fiddle- 
maker.  Oncle  Jazon  knew  nothing  whatever  about  old 
violins.  He  was  a  natural  musician,  that  was  all,  and 
flung  himself  upon  his  fiddle  with  the  same  passionate 
abandon  that  characterizes  a  healthy  boy's  assault 
when  a  plum  pudding  is  at  his  mercy.  But  his  fiddle 
was  a  Carlo  Bergonzi;  and  now  let  the  search  be  re 
newed,  for  the  precious  instrument  was  certainly  still 


114          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

in  Vincennes  as  late  as  1819,  and  there  is  a  vague  tradi 
tion  that  Governor  Whitcomb  played  on  it  not  long 
before  he  died.  The  mark  by  which  it  may  be  identi 
fied  is  the  single  word  "Jazon"  cut  in  the  back  of  its 
neck  by  Oncle  Jazon  himself. 

When  their  dance  was  ended  Alice  and  Beverley  fol 
lowed  the  others  of  their  set  out  into  the  open  air  while 
a  fresh  stream  of  eager  dancers  poured  in.  Beverley 
insisted  upon  wrapping  Alice  in  her  mantle  of  unlined 
beaver  skin  against  the  searching  winter  breath.  They 
did  not  go  to  the  fire,  but  walked  back  and  forth, 
chatting  until  their  turn  to  dance  should  come  again, 
pausing  frequently  to  exchange  pleasantries  with  some 
of  the  people.  Curiously  enough  both  of  them  had 
forgotten  the  fact  that  other  young  men  would  be  sure 
to  ask  Alice  for  a  dance,  and  that  more  than  one  pretty 
Creole  lass  was  rightfully  expecting  a  giddy  turn  with 
the  stalwart  and  handsome  Lieutenant  Beverley. 

Rene  de  Ronville  before  long  broke  rudely  into  their 
selfish  dream  and  led  Alice  into  the  house.  This  re 
minded  Beverley  of  his  social  duty,  wherefore  seeing 
little  Adrienne  Bourcier  he  made  a  rush  and  secured 
her  at  a  swoop  from  the  midst  of  a  scrambling  circle 
of  mutually  hindered  young  men. 

"Allans,  ma  petite!"  he  cried,  quite  in  the  gaj  tone 
of  the  occasion,  and  swung  her  lightly  along  with 
him. 

It  was  like  an  eagle  dancing  with  a  linnet,  or  a  giant 
with  a  fairy,  when  the  big  Lieutenant  led  out  la  petite 
'Adrienne,  as  everybody  called  hsr.  The  honor  of 
Beverlev's  attention  sat  unappreciated  on  Adrienne's 


The  Mayors  Party  115 

mind,  for  all  her  thoughts  went  with  her  eyes  toward 
Rene  and  Alice.  Nor  was  Beverley  so  absorbed  in  his 
partner's  behalf  that  he  ever  for  a  moment  willingly 
lost  sight  of  the  floating  buff  gown,  the  shining  brown 
hair  and  the  beautiful  face,  which  formed,  indeed,  the 
center  of  attraction  for  all  eyes. 

Father  Beret  was  present,  sharing  heartily  in  the 
merriment  of  his  flock.  Voices  greeted  him  on  all 
sides  with  intonations  of  tender  respect.  The  rudest 
man  there  was  loyal  to  the  kind-hearted  priest,  and 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  shooting  him  as  of  giv 
ing  him  any  but  the  most  reverent  attention.  It  is  to  be 
noted,  however,  that  their  understanding  of  reverence 
included  great  freedom  and  levity  not  especially  ecclesi 
astical  in  its  nature.  Father  Beret  understood  the  con 
ditions  around  him  and  had  the  genius  to  know  what 
not  to  hear,  what  not  to  see ;  but  he  never  failed  when 
a  good  word  or  a  fatherly  touch  with  his  hand  seemed 
worth  trying  on  a  sheep  that  appeared  to  be  straying 
dangerously  far  from  the  fold.  Upon  an  occasion  like 
this  dance  at  the  river  house,  he  was  no  less  the  faith 
ful  priest  because  of  his  genial  sympathy  with  the 
happiness  of  the  young  people  who  looked  to  him  for 
spiritual  guidance. 

It  was  some  time  before  Beverley  could  again  secure 
Alice  for  a  dance,  and  he  found  it  annoying  him  atro 
ciously  to  see  her  smile  sweetly  on  some  buckskin-clad 
lout  who  looked  like  an  Indian  and  danced  like  a 
Parisian.  He  did  not  greatly  enjoy  most  of  his  part 
ners;  they  could  not  appeal  to  any  side  of  his  naturj 
just  then.  Not  that  he  at  all  times  stood  too  much 


n6         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

on  his  aristocratic  traditions,  or  lacked  the  virile  traits 
common  to  vigorous  and  worldly-minded  men;  but 
the  contrast  between  Alice  and  the  other  girls  present 
was  somehow  an  absolute  bar  to  a  democratic  freedom 
of  the  sort  demanded  by  the  occasion.  He  met  Father 
Beret  and  passed  a  few  pleasant  words  with  him. 

"They  have  honored  your  flag,  my  son,  I  am  glad  to 
see,"  the  priest  said,  pointing  with  a  smile  to  where, 
in  one  corner,  the  banner  that  bore  Alice's  name  was 
effectively  draped. 

Beverley  had  not  noticed  it  before,  and  when  he 
presently  got  possession  of  Alice  he  asked  her  to  tell 
him  the  story  of  how  she  planted  it  on  the  fort,  al 
though  he  had  heard  it  to  the  last  detail  from  Father 
Beret  just  a  moment  ago.  They  stood  together  under 
its  folds  while  she  naively  sketched  the  scene  for  him, 
even  down  to  her  picturesquely  disagreeable  interview 
with  Long-Hair,  mention  of  whom  led  up  to  the  story 
of  the  Indian's  race  with  the  stolen  dame  Jeanne  of 
brandy  under  his  arm  on  that  memorable  night,  and 
the  subsequent  services  performed  for  him  by  Father 
Beret  and  her,  after  she  and  Jean  had  found  him  in  the 
mud  beyond  the  river. 

The  dancing  went  on  at  a  furious  pace  while  they 
stood  there.  Now  and  again  a  youth  came  to  claim 
her,  but  she  said  she  was  tired  and  begged  to  rest 
awhile,  smiling  so  graciously  upon  each  one  that  his 
rebuff  thrilled  him  as  if  it  had  been  the  most  flattering 
gift  of  tender  partiality,  while  at  the  same  time  he  sus 
pected  that  it  was  all  for  Beverley. 

Helm  in  his  most  jovial  mood  was  circulating  freely 


The  Mayor's  Party  117 

among  those  who  formed  the  periphery  of  the  dancing- 
area;  he  even  ventured  a  few  clumsy  capers  in  a  co 
tillion  with  Madame  Godere  for  partner.  She  danced 
well;  but  he,  as  someone  remarked,  stumbled  all  over 
himself. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  mar  the  evening's  pleas 
ure  :  some  of  the  men  drank  too  much  and  grew  bois 
terous.  A  quarrel  ended  in  a  noisy  but  harmless  fight 
near  one  of  the  fires.  M.  Roussillon  rushed  to  the  spot, 
seized  the  combatants,  tousled  them  playfully,  as  if 
they  had  been  children,  rubbed  their  heads  together, 
laughed  stormily  and  so  restored  the  equilibrium  of 
temper. 

It  was  late  when  fathers  and  mothers  in  the  com 
pany  began  to  suggest  adjournment.  Oncle  Jazon's 
elbow  was  tired  and  the  enthusiasm  generated  by  his 
unrecognized  Bergonzi  became  fitful,  while  the  relax 
ing  crowd  rapidly  encroached  upon  the  space  set  apart 
for  the  dancers.  In  the  open  lamps  suspended  here  and 
there  the  oil  was  running  low,  and  the  rag  wicks 
sputtered  and  winked  with  their  yellow  flames. 

"Well,"  said  M.  Roussillon,  coming  to  where  Alice 
and  Beverley  stood  insulated  and  isolated  by  their  great 
delight  in  each  other's  company,  "it's  time  to  go  home." 

Beverley  looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  a  quarter  to 
three ! 

Alice  also  looked  at  the  watch,  and  saw  engraved 
and  enameled  on  its  massive  case  the  Beverley  crest, 
but  she  did  not  know  what  it  meant.  There  was  some 
thing  of  the  sort  in  the  back  of  her  locket,  she  remem 
bered  with  satisfaction. 


li8          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Just  then  there  was  a  peculiar  stir  in  the  flagging 
crowd.  Someone  had  arrived,  a  coureur  de  bois  from 
the  north.  Where  was  the  commandant?  the  coureur 
had  something  important  for  him. 

Beverley  heard  a  remark  in  a  startled  voice  about 
the  English  getting  ready  for  a  descent  upon  the 
Wabash  valley.  This  broke  the  charm  which  thralled 
him  and  sent  through  his  nerves  the  bracing  shock  that 
only  a  soldier  can  feel  when  a  hint  of  coming  battle 
reaches  him. 

Alice  saw  the  flash  in  his  face. 

"Where  is  Captain  Helm?  I  must  see  him  im 
mediately.  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  abruptly  turning 
away  and  looking  over  the  heads  of  the  people ;  "yon 
der  he  is,  I  must  go  to  him.'' 

The  coureur  de  bois,  Adolphe  Dutremble  by  name, 
was  just  from  the  head  waters  of  the  Wabash.  He 
was  speaking  to  Helm  when  Beverley  came  up.  M. 
Roussillon  followed  close  upon  the  Lieutenant's  heels, 
as  eager  as  he  to  know  what  the  message  amounted  to ; 
but  Helm  took  the  coureur  aside,  motioning  Beverley 
to  join  them.  M.  Roussillon  included  himself  in  the 
conference. 

After  all  it  was  but  the  gossip  of  savages  that  Du 
tremble  communicated;  still  the  purport  was  startling 
in  the  extreme.  Governor  Hamilton,  so  the  story  ran, 
had  been  organizing  a  large  force;  he  was  probably 
now  on  his  way  to  the  portage  of  the  Wabash  with  a 
flotilla  of  batteaux,  some  companies  of  disciplined 
soldiers,  artillery  and  a  strong  body  of  Indians. 

Helm    listened    attentively    to    Dutremble's    lively 


The  Mayor's  Party  119 

sketch,  then  cross-questioned  him  with  laconic  direct 
ness. 

"Send  Mr.  Jazon  to  me,"  he  said  to  M.  Roussillon, 
as  if  speaking  to  a  servant. 

The  master  Frenchman  went  promptly,  recognizing 
Captain  Helm's  right  to  command,  and  sympathizing 
with  his  unpleasant  military  predicament  if  the  news 
should  prove  true. 

Oncle  Jazon  came  in  a  minute,  his  fiddle  and  bow 
clamped  under  his  arm,  to  receive  a  verbal  commission, 
which  sent  him  with  some  scouts  of  his  own  choosing 
forthwith  to  the  Wabash  portage,  or  far  enough  to 
ascertain  what  the  English  commander  was  doing. 

After  the  conference  Beverley  made  haste  to  join 
Alice;  but  he  found  that  she  had  gone  home. 

"One  hell  of  a  fix  we'll  be  in  if  Hamilton  comes 
down  here  with  a  good  force,"  said  Helm. 

Beverley  felt  like  retorting  that  a  little  forethought, 
zeal  and  preparation  might  have  lessened  the  pros 
pective  gloom.  He  had  been  troubled  all  the  time  about 
Helm's  utter  lack  of  military  precaution.  True,  there 
was  very  little  material  out  of  which  that  optimistic 
officer  could  have  formed  a  body  of  resistance  against 
the  army  probably  at  Hamilton's  command;  but  Bev 
erley  was  young,  energetic,  bellicose,  and  to  him  every 
thing  seemed  possible;  he  believed  in  vigilance,  disci 
pline,  activity,  dash ;  he  had  a  great  faith  in  the  efficacy 
of  enthusiasm. 

"We  must  organize  these  Frenchmen,"  he  said; 
"they  will  make  good  fighters  if  we  can  once  get  them 
to  act  as  a  body.  There's  no  time  to  be  lost ;  but  we 


120          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

have  time  enough  in  which  to  do  a  great  deal  before 
Hamilton  can  arrive,  if  we  go  at  it  in  earnest" 

"Your  theory  is  excellent,  Lieutenant,  but  the  prac 
tice  of  it  won't  be  worth  a  damn,"  Helm  replied  with 
perfect  good  nature.  "I'd  like  to  see  you  organize 
these  parly-voos.  There  ain't  a  dozen  of  'em  that 
wouldn't  accept  the  English  with  open  arms.  I  know 
'em.  They're  good  hearted,  polite  and  all  that; 
they'll  hurrah  for  the  flag;  that's  easy  enough;  but 
put  'em  to  the  test  and  they'll  join  in  with  the  strongest 
side,  see  if  they  don't  Of  course  there  are  a  few 
exceptions.  There's  Jazon,  he's  all  right,  and  I  have 
faith  in  Bosseron,  and  Legrace,  and  young  Ronville." 

"Roussillon "  Beverley  began. 

"Is  much  of  a  blow-hard,"  Helm  interrupted  with 
a  laugh.  "Barks  loud,  but  his  biting  disposition  is 
probably  not  vicious." 

"He  and  Father  Beret  control  the  whole  population 
at  all  events,"  said  Beverley. 

"Yes,  and  such  a  population !" 

While  joining  in  Captain  Helm's  laugh  at  the  ex 
pense  of  Vincennes,  Beverley  tool:  leave  to  indulge  a 
mental  reservation  in  favor  of  Alice.  He  could  not 
bear  to  class  her  with  the  crowd  of  noisy,  thoughtless, 
mercurial  beings  whom  he  heard  still  singing  gay 
snatches  and  calling  to  one  another  from  distance  to 
distance,  as  they  strolled  homeward  in  groups  and 
pairs.  Nor  could  the  impending  danger  of  an  enforced 
surrender  to  the  English  and  Indians  drive  from  his 
mind  her  beautiful  image,  while  he  lay  for  the  rest  of 
the  night  between  sleeping  and  waking  on  his  prinii- 


The  Mayor's  Party  121 

live  bed,  alternately  hearing  over  again  her  every 
phrase  and  laugh,  and  striving  to  formulate  some  defi 
nite  plan  for  defending  the  town  and  fort.  His  heart 
was  full  of  her.  She  had  surprised  his  nature  and 
filled  it,  as  with  a  wonderful,  haunting  song.  His 
youth,  his  imagination,  all  that  was  fresh  and  spon 
taneously  gentle  and  natural  in  him,  was  flooded  with 
the  magnetic  splendor  of  her  beauty.  And  yet,  in  his 
pride  (and  it  was  not  a  false  pride,  but  rather  a  noble 
regard  for  his  birthright)  he  vaguely  realized  how  far 
she  was  from  him,  how  impossible. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  DILEMMA  OF  CAPTAIN  HELM 

Oncle  Jazon,  feeling  like  a  fish  returned  to  the  water 
after  a  long  and  torturing  captivity  in  the  open  air, 
plunged  into  the  forest  with  anticipations  of  lively  ad 
venture  and  made  his  way  toward  the  Wea  plains. 
It  was  his  purpose  to  get  a  boat  at  the  village  of 
Ouiatenon  and  pull  thence  up  the  Wabash  until  he 
could  find  out  what  the  English  were  doing.  He  chose 
for  his  companions  on  this  dangerous  expedition  two 
expert  coureurs  de  bois,  Dutremble  and  Jacques  Bail- 
oup.  Fifty  miles  up  the  river  they  fell  in  with  some 
friendly  Indians,  well  known  to  them  all,  who  were 
returning  from  the  portage. 

The  savages  informed  them  that  there  were  no  signs 
of  an  English  advance  in  that  quarter.  Some  of  them 
had  been  as  far  as  the  St.  Joseph  river  and  to  within 
a  short  distance  of  Detroit  without  seeing  a  white  man 
or  hearing  of  any  suspicious  movements  on  the  part 
of  Hamilton.  So  back  came  Oncle  Jazon  with  his 
pleasing  report,  much  disappointed  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  stir  up  some  sort  of  trouble. 

It  was  Helm's  turn  to  laugh. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  cried,  in  a  jolly  mood, 
slapping  Beverley  on  the  shoulder.  "I  knew  mighty 
well  that  it  was  all  a  big  story  with  nothing  in  it. 
What  on  earth  would  the  English  be  thinking  about 
to  march  an  army  away  off  down  here  only  to  capture 

122 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     123 

a  rotten  stockade  and  a  lot  of  gabbling  parly- voos?" 
Beverley,  while  he  did  not  feel  quite  as  confident  as 
his  chief,  was  not  sorry  that  things  looked  a  little 
brighter  than  he  had  feared  they  would  turn  out  to 
be.  Secretly,  and  without  acknowledging  it  to  him 
self,  he  was  delighted  with  the  life  he  was  living.  The 
Arcadian  atmosphere  of  Vincennes  clothed  him  in  its 
mists  and  dreams.  No  matter  what  way  the  weather 
blew  its  breath,  cold  or  warm,  cloudy  or  fair,  rain  or 
snow,  the  peace  in  his  soul  changed  not.  His  nature 
seemed  to  hold  all  of  its  sterner  and  fiercer  traits  in 
abeyance  while  he  domiciled  himself  absolutely  within 
his  narrow  and  monotonous  environment.  Since  the 
dance  at  the  river  house  a  new  content,  like  a  soft 
and  diffused  sweetness,  had  crept  through  his  blood 
with  a  vague,  tingling  sense  of  joy. 

He  began  to  like  walking  about  rather  aimlessly  in 
the  town's  narrow  streets,  with  the  mud-daubed  cab 
ins  on  either  hand.  This  simple  life  under  low, 
thatched  roofs  had  a  charm.  When  a  door  was  opened 
he  could  see  a  fire  of  logs  on  the  ample  hearth  shooting 
its  yellow  tongues  up  the  sooty  chimney-throat.  Soft 
Creole  voices  murmured  and  sang,  or  jangled  their 
petty  domestic  discords.  Women  in  scant  petticoats, 
leggings  and  moccasins  swept  snow  from  the  squat 
verandas,  or  fed  the  pigs  in  little  sties  behind  the 
cabins.  Everybody  cried  cheerily:  "Bon  jour,  Mon 
sieur,  comment  alles-vous?"  as  he  went  by,  always 
accompanying  the  verbal  salute  with  a  graceful  wave 
of  the  hand. 

When  he  walked  early  in  the  morning  a  waft  of 


124         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

broiling  game  and  browning  corn  scones  was  abroad. 
Pots  and  kettles  occupied  the  hearths  with  glowing 
coals  heaped  around  and  under.  Shaggy  dogs  whined 
at  the  doors  until  the  mensal  remnants  were  tossed  out 
to  them  in  the  front  yard. 

But  it  was  always  a  glimpse  of  Alice  that  must  count 
for  everything  in  Beverley's  reckonings,  albeit  he  would 
have  strenuously  denied  it.  True  he  went  to  Rous- 
sillon  place  almost  every  day,  it  being  a  fixed  part  of 
his  well  ordered  habit,  and  had  a  talk  with  her.  Some 
times,  when  Dame  Roussillon  was  very  busy  and  so 
quite  off  her  guard,  they  read  together  in  a  novel,  or 
in  certain  parts  of  the  odd  volume  of  Montaigne. 
This  was  done  more  for  the  sweetness  of  disobedience 
than  to  enjoy  the  already  familiar  pages. 

Now  and  again  they  repeated  their  fencing  bout; 
but  never  with  the  result  which  followed  the  first. 
Beverley  soon  mastered  Alice's  tricks  and  showed  her 
that,  after  all,  masculine  muscle  is  not  to  be  discounted 
at  its  own  game  by  even  the  most  wonderful  womanly 
strength  and  suppleness.  She  struggled  bravely  to 
hold  her  vantage  ground  once  gained  so  easily,  but  the 
inevitable  was  not  to  be  avoided.  At  last,  one  howling 
winter  day,  he  disarmed  her  by  the  very  trick  that  she 
had  shown  him.  That  ended  the  play  and  they  ran 
shivering  into  the  house. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "it  isn't  fair.  You  are  so  much 
bigger  than  I ;  you  have  so  much  longer  arms ;  so  much 
more  weight  and  power.  It  all  counts  against  me! 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !"  She  was  rosy 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     125 

with  the  exhilarating  exercise  and  the  biting  of  the 
frosty  breeze.    Her  beauty  gave  forth  a  new  ray. 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  was  pleased  to  have  him  master 
her  so  superbly;  but  as  the  days  passed  she  never  said 
so,  never  gave  over  trying  to  make  him  feel  the  touch 
of  her  foil.  She  did  not  know  that  her  eyes  were 
getting  through  his  guard,  that  her  dimples  were  stab 
bing  his  heart  to  its  middle. 

"You  have  other  advantages,"  he  replied,  "which  far 
overbalance  my  greater  stature  and  stronger  muscles." 
Then  after  a  pause  he  added :  "After  all  a  girl  must  be 
a  girl." 

Something  in  his  face,  something  in  her  heart, 
startled  her  so  that  she  made  a  quick  little  move  like 
that  of  a  restless  bird. 

"You  are  beautiful  and  that  makes  my  eyes  and  my 
hand  uncertain,"  he  went  on.  "Were  I  fencing  with 
a  man  there  would  be  no  glamour." 

He  spoke  in  English,  which  he  did  not  often  do  in 
conversation  with  her.  It  was  a  sign  that  he  was 
somewhat  wrought  upon.  She  followed  his  rapid 
words  with  difficulty;  but  she  caught  from  them  a  new 
note  of  feeling.  He  saw  a  little  pale  flare  shoot  across 
her  face  and  thought  she  was  angry. 

"You  should  not  use  your  dimples  to  distract  my 
vision,"  he  quickly  added,  with  a  light  laugh.  "It 
would  be  no  worse  for  me  to  throw  my  hat  in  your 
face!" 

His  attempt  at  levity  was  obviously  weak;  she 
looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  with  the  steady  gaze  of 
a  simple,  earnest  nature  shocked  by  a  current  quite 


126          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

strange  to  it.  She  did  not  understand  him,  and  she  did 
Her  fine  intuition  gathered  swiftly  together  a  hundred 
shreds  of  impression  received  from  him  during  their 
recent  growing  intimacy.  He  was  a  patrician,  as  she 
vaguely  made  him  out,  a  man  of  wealth,  whose  family 
was  great.  He  belonged  among  people  of  gentle  birth 
and  high  attainments.  She  magnified  him  so  that  he 
was  diffused  in  her  imagination,  as  difficult  to  com 
prehend  as  a  mist  in  the  morning  air — and  as  beautiful. 

"You  make  fun  of  me,"  she  said,  very  deliberately, 
letting  her  eyes  droop ;  then  she  looked  up  again  sud 
denly  and  continued,  with  a  certain  naive  expression 
of  disappointment  gathering  in  her  face.  "I  have  been 
too  free  with  you.  Father  Beret  told  me  not  to  forget 
my  dignity  when  in  your  company.  He  told  me  you 
might  misunderstand  me.  I  don't  care;  I  shall  not 
fence  with  you  again."  She  laughed,  but  there  was 
no  joyous  freedom  in  the  sound. 

"Why,  Alice — my  dear  Miss  Roussillon,  you  do  me 
a  wrong ;  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  if  I've  hurt  you," 
he  cried,  stepping  nearer  to  her,  "and  I  can  never  for 
give  myself.  You  have  somehow  misunderstood  me, 
I  know  you  have!" 

On  his  part  it  was  exaggerating  a  mere  contact  of 
mutual  feelings  into  a  dangerous  collision.  He  was 
as  much  self -deceived  as  was  she,  and  he  made  more 
rnoise  about  it. 

"It  is  you  who  have  misunderstood  me,"  she  replied, 
smiling  brightly  now,  but  with  just  a  faint,  pitiful 
touch  of  regret,  or  self-blame  lingering  in  her  voice 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm      127 

"Father  Beret  said  you  would.  I  did  not  believe  him ; 
but " 

"And  you  shall  not  believe  him,"  said  Beverley.  "I 
have  not  misunderstood  you.  There  has  been  noth 
ing.  You  have  treated  me  kindly  and  with  beautiful 
friendliness.  You  have  not  done  or  said  a  thing  that 
Father  Beret  or  anybody  else  could  criticise.  And  if  I 
have  said  or  done  the  least  thing  to  trouble  you  I. 
repudiate  it — I  did  not  mean  it.  Now  you  believe  me, 
don't  you,  Miss  Roussillon?" 

He  seemed  to  be  falling  into  the  habit  of  speaking  to 
her  in  English.  She  understood  it  somewhat  imper 
fectly,  especially  when  in  an  earnest  moment  he  rushed 
his  words  together  as  if  they  had  been  soldiers  he  was 
leading  at  the  charge-step  against  an  enemy.  His  man 
ner  convinced  her,  even  though  his  diction  fell  short. 

"Then  we'll  talk  about  something  else,"  she  said, 
laughing  naturally  now,  and  retreating  to  a  chair  by 
the  hearthside.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  your 
self  and  your  family,  your  home  and  everything." 

She  seated  herself  with  an  air  of  conscious  aplomb 
and  motioned  him  to  take  a  distant  stool. 

There  was  a  great  heap  of  dry  logs  in  the  fireplace, 
with  pointed  flames  shooting  out  of  its  crevices  and 
leaping  into  the  gloomy,  cave-like  throat  of  the  flue. 
Outside  a  wind  passed  heavily  across  the  roof  and 
bellowed  in  the  chimney-top. 

Beverley  drew  the  stool  near  Alice,  who,  with  a 
charred  stick,  used  as  a  poker,  was  thrusting  at  the 
glowing  crevices  and  sending  showers  of  sparks  aloft 

"Why,  there  wouldn't  be  much  to  tell,"  he  said, 


128         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

glad  to  feel  secure  again.  "Our  home  is  a  big  old 
mansion  named  Beverley  Hall  on  a  hill  among  trees, 
and  half  surrounded  with  slave  cabins.  It  overlooks 
the  plantation  in  the  valley  where  a  little  river  goes 
wandering  on  its  way."  He  was  speaking  French  and 
she  followed  him  easily  now,  her  eyes  beginning  to 
fling  out  again  their  natural  sunny  beams  of  interest. 
"I  was  born  there  twenty-six  years  ago  and  haven't 
done  much  of  anything  since.  You  see  before  you, 
Mademoiselle,  a  very  undistinguished  young  man,  who 
has  signally  failed  to  accomplish  the  dream  of  his  boy 
hood,  which  was  to  be  a  great  artist  like  Raphael  or 
Angelo.  Instead  of  being  famous  I  am  but  a  poor 
Lieutenant  in  the  forces  of  Virginia." 

"You  have  a  mother,  father,  brothers  and  sisters?" 
she  interrogated.  She  did  not  understand  his  allusion 
to  the  great  artists  of  whom  she  knew  nothing.  She 
had  never  before  heard  of  them.  She  leaned  the  poker 
against  the  chimney  jamb  and  turned  her  face  toward 
him. 

"Mother,  father,  and  one  sister,"  he  said,  "no  broth 
ers.  We  were  a  happy  little  group.  But  my  sister 
married  and  lives  in  Baltimore.  I  am  here.  Father 
and  mother  are  alone  in  the  old  house.  Sometimes  I 
am  terribly  homesick."  He  was  silent  a  moment,  then 
added :  "But  you  are  selfish,  you  make  me  do  all  the 
telling.  Now  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  little  of  your 
story,  Mademoiselle,  beginning  as  I  did,  at  the  first." 

"But  I  can't,"  she  replied  with  childlike  frankness, 
"for  I  don't  know  where  I  was  born,  nor  my  parents' 
names,  nor  who  I  am.  You  see  how  different  it  is 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     129 

with  me.  I  am  called  Alice  Roussillon,  but  I  suppose 
that  my  name  is  Alice  Tarleton;  it  is  not  certain, 
however.  There  is  very  little  to  help  out  the  theory. 
Here  is  all  the  proof  there  is.  I  don't  know  that  it  is 
worth  anything." 

She  took  off  her  locket  and  handed  it  to  him. 

He  handled  it  rather  indifferently,  for  he  was  just 
then  studying  the  fine  lines  of  her  face.  But  in  a  mo 
ment  he  was  interested. 

"Tarleton,  Tarleton,"  he  repeated.  Then  he  turned 
the  little  disc  of  gold  over  and  saw  the  enameled  draw 
ing  on  the  back, — a  crest  clearly  outlined. 

He  started.    The  crest  was  quite  familiar. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  demanded  in  Eng 
lish,  and  with  such  blunt  suddenness  that  she  was 
startled.  "Where  did  it  come  from?" 

"I  have  always  had  it." 

"Always?  It's  the  Tarleton  crest.  Do  you  belong 
to  that  family?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not  know.  Papa  Roussillon  says  he 
thinks  I  do." 

"Well,  this  is  strange  and  interesting,"  said  Bever- 
ley,  rather  to  himself  than  addressing  her.  He  looked 
from  the  miniature  to  the  crest  and  back  to  the  mini 
ature  again,  then  at  Alice.  "I  tell  you  this  is  strange," 
he  repeated  with  emphasis.  "It  is  exceedingly  strange." 

Her  cheeks  flushed  quickly  under  their  soft  brown, 
and  her  eyes  flashed  with  excitement. 

"Yes,  I  know."  Her  voice  fluttered ;  her  hands  were 
clasped  in  her  lap.  She  leaned  toward  him  eagerly. 
"It  is  strange.  I've  thought  about  it  a  great  deal." 


130          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Alice  Tarleton;  that  is  right;  Alice  is  a  name  of 
the  family.  Lady  Alice  Tarleton  was  the  mother  of 
the  first  Sir  Garnett  Tarleton  who  came  over  in  the 
time  of  Yardley.  It's  a  great  family.  One  of  the 
oldest  and  best  in  Virginia."  He  looked  at  her  now 
with  a  gaze  of  concentrated  interest,  under  which  her 
eyes  fell.  "Why,  this  is  romantic!"  he  exclaimed, 
"absolutely  romantic.  And  you  don't  know  how  you 
came  by  this  locket?  You  don't  know  who  was  your 
father,  your  mother?" 

"I  do  not  know  anything." 

"And  what  does  Monsieur  Roussillon  know?" 

"Just  as  little." 

"But  how  came  he  to  be  taking  you  and  caring  for 
you?  He  must  know  how  he  got  you,  where  he  got 
you,  of  whom  he  got  you  ?  Surely  he  knows " 

"Oh,  I  know  all  that.  I  was  twelve  years  old  when 
Papa  Roussillon  took  me,  eight  years  ago.  I  had  been 
having  a  hard  life,  and  but  for  him  I  must  have  died. 
I  was  a  captive  among  the  Indians.  He  took  me  and 
has  cared  for  me  and  taught  me.  He  has  been  very, 
very  good  to  me.  I  love  him  dearly." 

"And  don't  you  remember  anything  at  all  about 
when,  where,  how  the  Indians  got  you?" 

"No."  She  shook  her  head  and  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  recollect  something.  "No,  I  just  can't  remember; 
and  yet  there  has  always  been  something  like  a  dream 
in  my  mind,  which  I  could  not  quite  get  hold  of.  I 
know  that  I  am  not  a  Catholic.  I  vaguely  remember 
a  sweet  woman  who  taught  me  to  pray  like  this :  'Our 
Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name.'  " 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     131 

And  Alice  went  on  through  the  beautiful  and  per 
fect  prayer,  which  she  repeated  in  English  with  infinite 
sweetness  and  solemnity,  her  eyes  uplifted,  her  hands 
clasped  before  her.  Beverley  could  have  sworn  that 
she  was  a  shining  saint,  and  that  he  saw  an  aureole. 

"I  know,"  she  continued,  "that  sometime,  some 
where,  to  a  very  dear  person  I  promised  that  I  never, 
never,  never  would  pray  any  prayer  but  that.  And  I 
remember  almost  nothing  else  about  that  other  life, 
which  is  far  off  back  yonder  in  the  past,  I  don't  know 
where, — sweet,  peaceful,  shadowy;  a  dream  that  I 
have  all  but  lost  from  my  mind." 

Beverley's  sympathy  was  deeply  moved.  He  sat 
for  some  minutes  looking  at  her  without  speaking. 
She,  too,  was  pensive  and  silent,  while  the  fire  sput 
tered  and  sang,  the  great  logs  slowly  melting,  the 
flames  tossing  wisps  of  smoke  into  the  chimney  still 
booming  to  the  wind. 

"I  know,  too,  that  I  am  not  French,"  she  presently 
resumed,  "but  I  don't  know  just  how  I  know  it.  My 
first  words  must  have  been  English,  for  I  have  always 
dreamed  of  talking  in  that  language,  and  my  dimmest 
half  recollections  of  the  old  days  are  of  a  large,  white 
house,  and  a  soft-voiced  black  woman,  who  sang  to  me 
in  that  language  the  very  sweetest  songs  in  the  world." 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  all  this  was  told  by 
Alice  in  her  creole  French,  half  bookish,  half  patois, 
of  which  no  translation  can  give  any  fair  impression. 

Beverley  listened,  as  one  who  hears  a  clever  reader 
intoning  a  strange  and  captivating  poem.  He  was 
charmed.  His  imagination  welcomed  the  story  and 


132          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

furnished  it  with  all  that  it  lacked  of  picturesque  com* 
pleteness.  In  those  days  it  was  no  uncommon  thing 
for  a  white  child  to  be  found  among  the  Indians  with 
not  a  trace  left  by  which  to  restore  it  to  its  people.  He 
had  often  heard  of  such  a  case.  But  here  was  Alice 
right  before  him,  the  most  beautiful  girl  that  he  had 
ever  seen,  telling  him  the  strangest  story  of  all.  To 
his  mind  it  was  clear  that  she  belonged  to  the  Tarle- 
ton  family  of  Virginia.  Youth  always  concludes  a 
matter  at  once.  He  knew  some  of  the  Tarletons; 
but  it  was  a  widely  scattered  family,  its  members  liv 
ing  in  almost  every  colony  in  America.  The  crest  he 
recognized  at  a  glance  by  the  dragon  on  the  helmet 
with  three  stars.  It  was  not  for  a  woman  to  bear; 
but  doubtless  it  had  been  enameled  on  the  locket  mere 
ly  as  a  family  mark,  as  was  often  done  in  America. 

"The  black  woman  was  your  nurse,  your  mammy," 
he  said.  "I  know  by  that  and  by  your  prayer  in  Eng 
lish,  as  well  as  by  your  locket,  that  you  are  of  a  good 
old  family." 

Like  most  Southerners,  he  had  strong  faith  in 
genealogy,  and  he  held  at  his  tongue's  tip  the  names 
of  all  the  old  families.  The  Carters,  the  Blairs,  the 
Fitzhughs,  the  Hansons,  the  Randolphs,  the  Lees,  the 
Ludwells,  the  Joneses,  the  Beverleys,  the  Tarletons — 
a  whole  catalogue  of  them  stretched  back  in  his  mem 
ory.  He  knew  the  coat  of  arms  displayed  by  each 
house.  He  could  repeat  their  legends. 

"I  wish  you  could  tell  me  more,"  he  went  on. 
"Can't  you  recollect  anything  further  about  your  early 
childhood,  your  first  impressions — the  house,  the  wo- 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     133 

man  who  taught  you  to  pray,  the  old  black  mammy? 
Any  little  thing  might  be  of  priceless  value  as  evi 
dence." 

Alice  shrugged  her  shoulders  after  the  Creole  fash 
ion  with  something  of  her  habitual  levity  of  manner, 
and  laughed.  His  earnestness  seemed  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  subject,  as  she  fancied  he  must  view  it, 
although  to  her  it  had  always  been  something  to  dream 
over.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  realize,  as  he  did, 
the  importance  of  details  in  solving  a  problem  like  that 
involved  in  her  past  history.  Nor  could  she  feel  the 
pathos  and  almost  tragic  fascination  with  which  her 
story  had  touched  him. 

"There  is  absolutely  nothing  more  to  tell,"  she  said. 
"All  my  life  I  have  tried  to  remember  more,  but  it's 
impossible;  I  can't  get  any  further  back  or  call  up 
another  thing.  There's  no  use  trying.  It's  all  like 
a  dream — probably  it  is  one.  I  do  have  such  dreams. 
In  my  sleep  I  can  lift  myself  into  the  air,  just  as  easy, 
and  fly  back  to  the  same  big  white  house  that  I  seem 
to  remember.  When  you  told  me  about  your  home  it 
was  like  something  that  I  had  often  seen  before.  I 
shall  be  dreaming  about  it  next !" 

Beverley  cross-questioned  her  from  every  possible 
point  of  view;  he  was  fascinated  with  the  mystery; 
but  she  gave  him  nothing  out  of  which  the  least  further 
light  could  be  drawn.  A  half-breed  woman,  it  seemed, 
had  been  her  Indian  foster-mother;  a  silent,  grave, 
watchful  guardian  from  whom  not  a  hint  of  disclosure 
ever  fell.  She  was,  moreover,  a  Christian  woman, 
who  had  received  her  conversion  from  an  English- 


134          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

speaking  Protestant  missionary.  She  prayed  with 
Alice,  thus  keeping  in  the  child's  mind  a  perfect  mem 
ory  of  the  Lord's  prayer. 

"Well,"  said  Beverley  at  last,  "you  are  more  of  a 
mystery  to  me,  the  longer  I  know  you." 

"Then  I  must  grow  every  day  more  distasteful  to 
you." 

"No,  I  love  mystery." 

He  went  away  feeling  a  new  web  of  interest  bind 
ing  him  to  this  inscrutable  maiden  whose  life  seemed 
to  him  at  once  so  full  of  idyllic  happiness  and  so  en 
shrouded  in  tantalizing  doubt.  At  the  first  opportunity 
he  frankly  questioned  M.  Roussillon,  with  no  helpful 
result.  The  big  Frenchman  told  the  same  meager 
story.  The  woman  was  dying  in  the  time  of  a  great 
epidemic,  which  killed  most  of  her  tribe.  She  gave 
Alice  to  M.  Roussillon,  but  told  him  not  a  word  about 
her  ancestry  or  previous  life.  That  was  all. 

A  wise  old  man,  when  he  finds  himself  in  a  blind 
alley,  no  sooner  touches  the  terminal  wall  than  he  faces 
about  and  goes  back  the  way  he  came.  Under  like 
circumstances  a  young  man  must  needs  try  to  batter 
the  wall  down  with  his  head.  Beverley  endeavored  to 
break  through  the  web  of  mystery  by  sheer  force.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  a  vigorous  attempt  could  not  fail 
to  succeed;  but,  like  the  fly  in  the  spider's  lines,  he 
became  more  hopelessly  bound  at  every  move  he  made. 
Moreover  against  his  will  he  was  realizing  that  he 
could  no  longer  deceive  himself  about  Alice.  He  loved 
her,  and  the  love  was  mastering  him  body  and  souL 
Such  a  confession  carries  with  it  into  an  honest  mascu- 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     13  £ 

line  heart  a  sense  of  contending  responsibilities.  In 
Beverley's  case  the  dash  was  profoundly  disturbing. 
And  now  he  clutched  the  thought  that  Alice  was  not 
a  mere  child  of  the  woods,  but  a  daughter  of  an  old 
family  of  cavaliers ! 

With  coat  buttoned  close  against  the  driving  wind,, 
he  strode  toward  the  fort  in  one  of  those  melodramatic 
moods  to  which  youth  in  all  climes  and  times  is  subject. 
It  was  like  a  slap  in  the  face  when  Captain  Helm  met 
him  at  the  stockade  gate  and  said: 

"Well,  sir,  you  are  good  at  hiding." 

"Hiding!  what  do  you  mean,  Captain  Helm?"  he 
demanded,  not  in  the  mildest  tone. 

"I  mean,  sir,  that  I've  been  hunting  you  for  an  hour 
and  more,  over  the  whole  of  this  damned  town.  The 
English  and  Indians  are  upon  us,  and  there's  no  time 
for  fooling.  Where  are  all  the  men?" 

Beverley  comprehended  the  situation  in  a  second. 
Helm's  face  was  congested  with  excitement.  Some 
scouts  had  come  in  with  the  news  that  Governor  Ham 
ilton,  at  the  head  of  five  or  six  hundred  soldiers  and 
Indians,  was  only  three  or  four  miles  up  the  river. 

"Where  are  all  the  men?"  Helm  repeated. 

"Buffalo  hunting,  most  of  them,"  said  Beverley. 

"What  in  hell  are  they  off  hunting  buffaloes  for?" 
raged  the  excited  captain. 

"You  might  go  to  hell  and  see,"  Beverley  suggested, 
and  they  both  laughed  in  sheer  masculine  contempt  of 
a  predicament  too  grave  for  anything  but  grim  mirth. 

What  could  they  do?  Even  Oncle  Jazon  and  Rene 
de  Ronville  were  off  with  the  hunters.  Helm  sent 


136          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

for  M.  Roussillon  in  the  desperate  hope  that  he  could 
suggest  something;  but  he  lost  his  head  and  hustled 
off  to  hide  his  money  and  valuables.  Indeed  the  French 
people  all  felt  that,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  the 
chief  thing  was  to  save  what  they  had.  They  well 
knew  that  it  mattered  little  which  of  the  two  masters 
held  over  them — they  must  shift  for  themselves.  In 
their  hearts  they  were  true  to  France  and  America; 
but  France  and  America  could  not  now  protect  them 
against  Hamilton ;  therefore  it  would  be  like  suicide  to 
magnify  patriotism  or  any  other  sentiment  objection* 
able  to  the  English.  So  they  acted  upon  M.  Rous- 
sillon's  advice  and  offered  no  resistance  when  the  new 
army  approached. 

"My  poor  people  are  not  disloyal  to  your  flag  and 
your  cause,"  said  good  Father  Beret  next  morning  to 
Captain  Helm,  "but  they  are  powerless.  Winter  is 
upon  us.  What  would  you  have  us  do  ?  This  rickety 
fort  is  not  available  for  defense;  the  men  are  nearly 
all  far  away  on  the  plains.  Isn't  it  the  part  of  pru 
dence  and  common  sense  to  make  the  best  of  a  des 
perate  situation?  Should  we  resist,  the  British  and 
their  savage  allies  would  destroy  the  town  and  com 
mit  outrages  too  horrible  to  think  about.  In  this  case 
diplomacy  promises  much  more  than  a  hopeless  fight 
against  an  overwhelming  force." 

"I'll  fight  'em,"  Helm  ground  out  between  his 
teeth,  "if  I  have  to  do  it  single-handed  and  alone! 
I'll  fight  'em  till  hell  freezes  over!" 

Father  Beret  smiled  grimly,  as  if  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  a  lively  skirmish  on  the  ice  of  Tophet,  and  said : 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm    137 

"I  admire  your  courage,  my  son.  Fighting  is  per 
fectly  proper  upon  fair  occasion.  But  think  of  the 
poor  women  and  children.  These  old  eyes  of  mine 
have  seen  some  terrible  things  done  by  enraged  sav 
ages.  Men  can  die  fighting ;  but  their  poor  wives  and 
daughters — ah,  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen!" 

Beverley  felt  a  pang  of  terror  shoot  through  his 
heart  as  Father  Beret's  simple  words  made  him  think 
of  Alice  in  connection  with  an  Indian  massacre. 

"Of  course,  of  course  it's  horrible  to  think  of,"  said 
Helm ;  "but  my  duty  is  clear,  and  that  flag,"  he  pointed 
to  where  la  banniere  d' Alice  Roussillon  was  almost 
blowing  away  in  the  cold  wind,  "that  flag  shall  not 
come  down  save  in  full  honor." 

His  speech  sounded  preposterously  boastful  and  hol 
low  ;  but  he  was  manfully  in  earnest ;  every  word  came 
from  his  brave  heart. 

Father  Beret's  grim  smile  returned,  lighting  up  his 
strongly  marked  face  with  the  strangest  expression 
imaginable. 

"We  will  get  all  the  women  inside  the  fort,"  Helm 
began  to  say. 

"Where  the  Indians  will  find  them  ready  penned  up 
and  at  their  mercy,"  quickly  interpolated  the  priest 
"That  will  not  do." 

"Well,  then,  what  can  be  done?"  Beverley  de 
manded,  turning  with  a  fierce  stare  upon  Father  Beret. 
"Don't  stand  there  objecting  to  everything,  with  not 
a  suggestion  of  your  own  to  offer." 

"I  know  what  is  best  for  my  people,"  the  old  man 
replied  softly,  still  smiling.  "I  have  advised  them  to 


138          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

stay  inside  their  houses  and  take  no  part  in  the  military 
event.  It  is  the  only  hope  of  averting  an  indiscrim 
inate  massacre,  and  things  worse." 

The  curt  phrase,  "things  worse,"  went  like  a  bullet- 
stroke  through  Beverley's  heart.  It  flashed  an  awful 
picture  upon  his  vision.  Father  Beret  saw  his  face 
whiten  and  his  lips  set  themselves  to  resist  a  great 
emotion. 

"Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  my  son,"  he  said,  laying 
a  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm.  "I  may  be  wrong, 
but  I  act  upon  long  and  convincing  experience." 

"Experience  or  no  experience,"  Helm  exclaimed 
with  an  oath,  "this  fort  must  be  manned  and  defended. 
I  am  commanding  here!" 

"Yes,  I  recognize  your  authority,"  responded  the 
priest  in  a  firm  yet  deferential  tone,  "and  I  heartily 
wish  you  had  a  garrison ;  but  where  is  your  command, 
Captain  Helm?" 

Then  it  was  that  the  doughty  Captain  let  loose  the 
accumulated  profanity  with  which  he  had  been  for 
some  time  well-nigh  bursting.  He  tiptoed  in  order  to 
curse  with  extremest  violence.  His  gestures  were 
threatening.  He  shook  his  fists  at  Father  Beret,  with 
out  really  meaning  offence. 

"Where  is  my  garrison,  you  ask !  Yes,  and  I  can  tell 
you.  It's  where  you  might  expect  a  gang  of  dad 
blasted  jabbering  French  good-for-nothings  to  be,  off 
high-gannicking  around  shooting  buffaloes  instead  of 
staying  here  and  defending  their  wives,  children,  homes 
and  country,  damn  their  everlasting  souls!  The  few 
I  have  in  the  fort  will  sneak  off,  I  suppose." 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     139 

"The  French  gave  you  this  post  on  easy  terms,  Cap 
tain,"  blandly  retorted  Father  Beret. 

"Yes,  and  they'll  hand  it  over  to  Hamilton,  you 
think,  on  the  same  basis,"  cried  Helm,  "but  I'll  show 
you !  I'll  show  you,  Mr.  Priest !" 

"Pardon  me,  Captain,  the  French  are  loyal  to  you 
and  to  the  flag  yonder.  They  have  sworn  it.  Time 
will  prove  it.  But  in  the  present  desperate  dilemma 
we  must  choose  the  safer  horn." 

Saying  this  Father  Beret  turned  about  and  went  his 
way.  He  was  chuckling  heartily  as  he  passed  out  of 
the  gate. 

"He  is  right,"  said  Beverley  after  a  few  moments  of 
reflection,  during  which  he  was  wholly  occupied  with 
Alice,  whose  terrified  face  in  his  anticipation  appealed 
to  him  from  the  midst  of  howling  savages,  smoking 
cabins  and  mangled  victims  of  lust  and  massacre.  His 
imagination  painted  the  scene  with  a  merciless  realism 
that  chilled  his  blood.  All  the  sweet  romance  fell 
away  from  Vincennes. 

"Well,  sir,  right  or  wrong,  your  duty  is  to  obey 
orders,"  said  Helm  with  brutal  severity. 

"We  had  better  not  quarrel,  Captain,"  Beverley  re 
plied.  "I  have  not  signified  any  unwillingness  to  obey 
your  commands.  Give  them,  and  you  will  have  no 
cause  to  grumble." 

"Forgive  me,  old  fellow,"  cried  the  impulsive  com 
mander.  "I  know  you  are  true  as  steel.  I  s'pose  I'm 
wound  up  too  tight  to  be  polite.  But  the  time  is  come 
to  do  something.  Here  we  are  with  but  five  or  six 
men " 


140          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  two  more  half- 
breed  scouts. 

Only  three  miles  away  was  a  large  flotilla  of  boats 
and  canoes  with  cannon,  a  force  of  Indians  on  land  and 
the  British  flag  flying, — that  was  the  report. 

"They  are  moving  rapidly,"  said  the  spokesman,- 
"and  will  be  here  very  soon.  They  are  at  least  six 
hundred  strong,  all  well  armed." 

"Push  that  gun  to  the  gate,  and  load  it  to  the 
muzzle,  Lieutenant  Beverley,"  Helm  ordered  with  ad 
mirable  firmness,  the  purple  flush  in  his  face  giving 
way  to  a  grayish  pallor.  "We  are  going  to  die  right 
here,  or  have  the  honors  of  war." 

Beverley  obeyed  without  a  word.  He  even  loaded 
two  guns  instead  of  one — charging  each  so  heavily 
that  the  last  wad  looked  as  if  ready  to  leap  from  the 
grimy  mouth. 

Helm  had  already  begun,  on  receiving  the  first  re 
port,  a  hasty  letter  to  Colonel  Clark  at  Kaskaskia.  He 
now  added  a  few  words  and  at  the  last  moment  sent  it 
out  by  a  trusted  man,  who  was  promptly  captured  by 
Hamilton's  advance  guard.  The  missive,  evidently 
written  in  installments  during  the  slow  approach  of 
the  British,  is  still  in  the  Canadian  archives,  and  runs 
thus: 

"Dear  Sir — At  this  time  there  is  an  army  within 
three  miles  of  this  place ;  I  heard  of  their  coming  sev 
eral  days  beforehand.  I  sent  spies  to  find  the  cer 
tainty — the  spies  being  taken  prisoner  I  never  got 
intelligence  till  they  got  within  three  miles  of  town, 
As  I  hid  called  the  militia  and  had  all  assurances  of 


The  Dilemma  of  Captain  Helm     141 

their  integrity  I  ordered  at  the  firing  of  a  cannon 
every  man  to  appear,  but  I  saw  but  few.  Captain 
Buseron  behaved  much  to  his  honor  and  credit,  bul 
I  doubt  the  conduct  of  a  certain  gent.  Excuse  haste, 
as  the  army  is  in  sight.  My  determination  is  to  de 
fend  the  garrison,  (sic)  though  I  have  but  twenty- 
one  men  but  what  has  left  me.  I  refer  you  to  Mr 
Wmes  (sic)  for  the  rest.  The  army  is  within  threi 
hundred  yards  of  the  village.  You  must  think  how 
I  feel;  not  four  men  that  I  really  depend  upon;  but 
am  determined  to  act  brave — think  of  my  condition. 
I  know  it  is  out  of  my  power  to  defend  the  town,  as 
not  one  of  the  militia  will  take  arms,  though  before 
sight  of  the  army  no  braver  men.  There  is  a  flag  at 
a  small  distance,  I  must  conclude. 
Your  humble  servant, 

Leo'd  Helm. 

Must  stop." 
"To  Colonel  Clark." 

Having  completed  this  task,  the  letter  shows  under 
what  a  nervous  strain,  Helm  turned  to  his  lieutenant 
and  said : 

"Fire  a  swivel  with  a  blank  charge.  We'll  give 
these  weak-kneed  parly-voos  one  more  call  to  duty. 
Of  course  not  a  frog-eater  of  them  all  will  come.  But 
I  said  that  a  gun  should  be  the  signal.  Possibly  they 
didn't  hear  the  first  one,  the  damned,  deaf,  cowardly 
hounds !" 

Beverley  wheeled  forth  the  swivel  and  rammed  a 
charge  of  powder  home.  But  when  he  fired  it,  the 
effect  was  far  from  what  it  should  have  been.  Instead 
of  calling  in  a  fresh  body  of  militia,  it  actually  drove 


142          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

out  the  few  who  up  to  that  moment  had  remained  as 
a  garrison;  so  that  Captain  Helm  and  his  Lieutenant 
found  themselves  quite  alone  in  the  fort,  while  out 
before  the  gate,  deployed  in  fine  open  order,  a  strong 
line  of  British  soldiers  approached  with  sturdy  steps, 
led  by  a  tall,  erect,  ruddy-faced  young  officer. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   HONORS    OF   WAR 

Gaspard  Roussillon  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
savage  warfare,  and  he  knew  all  the  pacific  means  so 
successfully  and  so  long  used  by  French  missionaries 
and  traders  to  control  savage  character;  but  the 
emergency  now  upon  him  was  startling.  It  confused 
him.  The  fact  that  he  had  taken  a  solemn  oath  of 
allegiance  to  the  American  government  could  have 
been  pushed  aside  lightly  enough  upon  pressing  oc 
casion,  but  he  knew  that  certain  confidential  agents 
left  in  Vincennes  by  Governor  Abbott  had,  upon  the 
arrival  of  Helm,  gone  to  Detroit,  and  of  course  they 
had  carried  thither  a  full  report  of  all  that  happened 
in  the  church  of  St.  Xavier,  when  Father  Gibault  called 
the  people  together,  and  at  the  fort,  when  the  British 
flagwas  hauled  down  and  la  banniere  d' Alice  Roussillon 
run  up  in  its  place.  His  expansive  imagination  did  full 
credit  to  itself  in  exaggerating  the  importance  of  his 
,part  in  handing  the  post  over  to  the  rebels.  And  what 
•  would  Hamilton  think  of  this  ?  Would  he  consider  it 
treason?  The  question  certainly  bore  a  tragic  sug 
gestion. 

M.  Roussillon  lacked  everything  of  being  a  coward, 
and  treachery  had  no  rightful  place  in  his  nature.  He 
was,  however,  so  in  the  habit  of  fighting  windmills 
and  making  mountains  of  molehills  that  he  could 

143 


144         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

not  at  first  glance  see  any  sudden  presentment  with 
a  normal  vision.  He  had  no  love  for  Englishmen  and 
he  did  like  Americans,  but  he  naturally  thought  that 
Helm's  talk  of  fighting  Hamilton  was,  as  his  own 
would  have  been  in  a  like  case,  talk  and  nothing  more. 
The  fort  could  not  hold  out  an  hour,  he  well  knew. 
Then  what?  Ah,  he  but  too  well  realized  the  result. 

Resistance  would  inflame  the  English  soldiers  and 
madden  the  Indians.  There  would  be  a  massacre,  and 
the  belts  of  savages  would  sag  with  bloody  scalps. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  felt  a  chill  creep  up 
his  back. 

The  first  thing  M.  Roussillon  did  was  to  see  Father 
Beret  and  take  counsel  of  him ;  then  he  hurried  home 
to  dig  a  great  pit  under  his  kitchen  floor  in  which  he 
buried  many  bales  of  fur  and  all  his  most  valuable 
things.  He  worked  like  a  giant  beaver  all  night  long. 
Meantime  Father  Beret  went  about  over  the  town 
quietly  notifying  the  inhabitants  to  remain  in  their 
houses  until  after  the  fort  should  surrender,  which 
he  was  sure  would  happen  the  next  day. 

"You  will  be  perfectly  safe,  my  children,"  he  said  to 
them.  "No  harm  can  come  to  you  if  you  follow  my 
directions." 

Relying  implicitly  upon  him,  they  scrupulously 
obeyed  in  every  particular. 

He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  call  at  Roussillon 
place,  having  already  given  M.  Roussillon  the  best 
advice  he  could  command. 

Just  at  the  earliest  break  of  day,  while  yet  the  gloom 
of  night  scarcely  felt  the  sun's  approach,  a  huge  figure 


The  Honors  of  War  145 

made  haste  along  the  narrow  streets  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  town.  If  any  person  had  been  looking  out 
through  the  little  holes,  called  windows,  in  those  silent 
and  rayless  huts,  it  would  have  been  easy  to  recognize 
M.  Roussillon  by  his  stature  and  his  gait,  dimly  out 
lined  as  he  was.  A  thought,  which  seemed  to  him  an. 
inspiration  of  genius,  had  taken  possession  of  him  and 
was  leading  him,  as  if  by  the  nose,  straight  away  to 
Hamilton's  lines.  He  was  freighted  with  eloquence 
for  the  ear  of  that  commander,  and  as  he  strode 
along  facing  the  crisp  morning  air  he  was  rehearsing 
under  his  breath,  emphasizing  his  periods  in  tragic 
whispers  with  sweeping  gestures  and  liberal  facial 
contortions.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  oratorical 
soliloquy  that  he  forgot  due  military  precaution  and 
ran  plump  into  the  face  of  a  savage  picket  guard  who, 
without  respect  for  the  great  M.  Roussillon's  dignity, 
sprang  up  before  him,  grunted  cavernously,  flourished 
a  tomahawk  and  spoke  in  excellent  and  exceedingly 
guttural  Indian: 

"Wah,  surrender!" 

It  is  probable  that  no  man  ever  complied  with  a 
modest  request  in  a  more  docile  spirit  than  did  M. 
Roussillon  upon  that  occasion.  In  fact  his  prompt 
ness  must  have  been  admirable,  for  the  savage  grunted 
approval  and  straightway  conducted  him  to  Hamil" 
ton's  headquarters  on  a  batteau  in  the  river. 

The  British  commander,  a  hale  man  of  sandy  com-» 
plexion  and  probably  under  middle  age,  was  in  no 
very  pleasant  humor.  Some  of  his  orders  had  been 
misunderstood  by  the  chief  of  his  Indian  allies,  so  that 


146         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

a  premature  exposure  of  his  approach  had  been  made 
to  the  enemy. 

"Well,  sir,  who  are  you?"  he  gruffly  demanded,  when 
M.  Roussillon  loomed  before  him. 

"I  am  Gaspard  Roussillon,  the  Mayor  of  Vincennes," 
was  the  lofty  reply.  "I  have  come  to  announce  to  you 
officially  that  my  people  greet  you  loyally  and  that 
my  town  is  freely  at  your  command."  He  felt  as  im 
portant  as  if  his  statements  had  been  true. 

"Humph,  that's  it,  is  it?  Well,  Mr.  Mayor,  you  have 
my  congratulations,  but  I  should  prefer  seeing  the 
military  commander  and  accepting  his  surrender. 
What  account  can  you  give  me  of  the  American  forces, 
their  numbers  and  condition?" 

M.  Roussillon  winced,  inwardly  at  least,  under  Ham 
ilton's  very  undeferential  air  and  style  of  address.  It 
piqued  him  cruelly  to  be  treated  as  a  person  without 
the  slightest  claim  to  respect.  He  somehow  forgot  the 
rolling  and  rhythmical  eloquence  prepared  for  the  oc 
casion. 

"The  American  commander  naturally  would  not  con 
fide  in  me,  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur,  not  at  all;  we 
are  not  very  friendly;  he  ousted  me  from  office,  he 
offended  me "  he  was  coughing  and  stammering. 

"Oh,  the  devil !  what  do  I  care  ?  Answer  my  ques 
tion,  sir,"  Hamilton  gruffly  interrupted.  "Tell  me  the 
number  of  American  troops  at  the  fort,  sir." 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  I  have  not  had  admittance 
to  the  fort.  I  might  be  deceived  as  to  numbers;  but 
they're  strong,  I  believe,  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur,  at 
least  they  make  a  great  show  and  much  noise," 


The  Honors  of  War  147 

Hamilton  eyed  the  huge  bulk  before  him  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  turning  to  a  subaltern  said: 

"Place  this  fellow  under  guard  and  see  that  he 
doesn't  get  away.  Send  word  immediately  to  Captain 
Farnsworth  that  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once." 

The  interview  thereupon  closed  abruptly.  Hamil 
ton's  emissaries  had  given  him  a  detailed  account  of 
M.  Roussillon's  share  in  submitting  Vincennes  to  rebel 
dominion,  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  inclined  toward 
treating  him  graciously. 

"I  would  suggest  to  you,  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur, 

that  my  official  position  demands "  M.  Roussil- 

lon  began;  but  he  was  fastened  upon  by  two  guards, 
who  roughly  hustled  him  aft  and  bound  him  so  rigid 
ly  that  he  could  scarcely  move  finger  or  toe. 

Hamilton  smiled  coldly  and  turned  to  give  some 
orders  to  a  stalwart,  ruddy  young  officer  who  in  a 
canoe  had  just  rowed  alongside  the  batteau. 

"Captain  Farnsworth,"  he  said,  acknowledging  the 
military  salute,  "you  will  take  fifty  men  and  make 
everything  ready  for  a  reconnaissance  in  the  direction 
of  the  fort.  We  will  move  down  the  river  immediately 
and  choose  a  place  to  land.  Move  lively,  we  have  no 
time  to  lose." 

In  the  meantime  Beverley  slipped  away  from  the 
fort  and  made  a  hurried  call  upon  Alice  at  Roussillon 
place.  There  was  not  much  they  could  say  to  each 
other  during  the  few  moments  at  command.  Alice 
showed  very  little  excitement;  her  past  experience 
had  fortified  her  against  the  alarms  of  frontier  life; 


148          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

but  she  understood  and  perfectly  appreciated  the  situ 
ation. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  Beverley  demanded  in 
sheer  despair.  He  was  not  able  to  see  any  gleam  of 
hope  out  of  the  blackness  which  had  fallen  around  him 
and  into  his  soul. 

"What  shall  you  do?"  he  repeated. 

"Take  the  chances  of  war,"  she  said,  smiling 
gravely.  "It  will  all  come  out  well,  no  doubt." 

"I  hope  so,  but — but  I  fear  not." 

His  face  was  gray  with  trouble.  "Helm  is  deter 
mined  to  fight,  and  that  means " 

"Good !"  she  interrupted  with  spirit.  "I  am  so  glad 
of  that.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  help  him!  If  I  were  a 
man  I'd  love  to  fight!  I  think  it's  just  delightful." 

"But  it  is  reckless  bravado ;  it  is  worse  than  foolish 
ness,"  said  Beverley,  not  feeling  her  mood.  "What  can 
two  or  three  men  do  against  an  army?" 

"Fight  and  die  like  men,"  she  replied,  her  whole 
countenance  lighting  up.  "Be  heroic !" 

"We  will  do  that,  of  course;  we — I  do  not  fear 
death ;  but  you — you "  His  voice  choked  him. 

A  gun  shot  rang  out  clear  in  the  distance,  and  he 
did  not  finish  speaking. 

"That's  probably  the  beginning,"  he  added  in  a  mo 
ment,  extending  both  hands  to  her.  "Good  bye.  I 
must  hurry  to  the  fort.  Good  bye." 

She  drew  a  quick  breath  and  turned  so  white  that 
her  look  struck  him  like  a  sudden  and  hard  blow.  He 
stood  for  a  second,  his  arms  at  full  reach,  then : 


The  Honors  of  War  149 

"My  God,  Alice,  I  cannot,  cannot  leave  you!" 
he  cried,  his  voice  again  breaking  huskily. 

She  made  a  little  movement,  as  if  to  take  hold  of 
his  hands:  but  in  an  instant  she  stepped  back  a 
pace  and  said: 

"Don't  fear  about  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 
I'm  all  right.  You'd  better  return  to  the  fort  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  It  is  your  country,  your  flag, 
not  me,  that  you  must  think  of  now." 

She  folded  her  arms  and  stood  boldly  erect. 

Never  before,  in  all  his  life,  had  he  felt  such  a  re 
buke.  He  gave  her  a  straight,  strong  look  in  the  eyes. 

"You  are  right,  Alice,"  he  cried,  and  rushed  from 
the  house  to  the  fort. 

She  held  her  rigid  attitude  for  a  little  while  after 
she  heard  him  shut  the  front  gate  of  the  yard  so 
forcibly  that  it  broke  in  pieces,  then  she  flung  her  arms 
wide,  as  if  to  clasp  something,  and  ran  to  the  door ;  but 
Beverley  was  out  of  sight.  She  turned  and  dropped 
into  a  chair.  Jean  came  to  her  out  of  the  next  room. 
His  queer  little  face  was  pale  and  pinched ;  but  his  jaw 
was  set  with  the  expression  of  one  who  has  known  dan 
ger  and  can  meet  it  somehow. 

"Are  they  going  to  scalp  us?"  he  half  whispered 
presently,  with  a  shuddering  lift  of  his  distorted  shoul 
ders. 

Her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands  and  she  did  not 
answer.  Childlike  he  turned  from  one  question  to  an 
other  inconsequently. 

"Where  did  Papa  Roussillon  go  to?"  he  next  in 
quired.  "Is  he  going  to  fight?" 


i  go         Alice  of  Old  Vincennef 

She  shook  her  head. 

"They'll  tear  down  the  fort,  won't  they?" 

If  she  heard  him  she  did  not  make  any  sign. 

"They'll  kill  the  Captain  and  Lieutenant  and  get  the 
fine  flag  that  you  set  so  high  on  the  fort,  won't  they, 
Alice?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  gave  the  cowering  hunch 
back  such  a  stare  that  he  shut  his  eyes  and  put  up  a 
hand,  as  if  afraid  of  her.  Then  she  impulsively  took 
his  little  misshapen  form  in  her  arms  and  hugged  it 
passionately.  Her  bright  hair  fell  all  over  him,  almost 
hiding  him.  Madame  Roussillon  was  lying  on  a  bed  in 
an  adjoining  room  moaning  diligently,  at  intervals 
handling  her  rosary  and  repeating  a  prayer.  The  whole 
town  was  silent  outside. 

"Why  don't  you  go  get  the  pretty  flag  down  and 
hide  it  before  they  come  ?"  Jean  murmured  from  within 
the  silken  meshes  of  Alice's  hair. 

In  his  small  mind  the  gaudy  banner  was  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  things.  Every  day  since  it  was  set  up 
he  had  gone  to  gaze  at  it  as  it  fluttered  against  the  sky. 
The  men  had  frequently  said  in  his  presence  that  the 
enemy  would  take  it  down  if  they  captured  the  fort. 

Alice  heard  his  inquisitive  voice;  but  it  seemed  to 
come  from  far  off;  his  words  were  a  part  of  the 
strange,  wild  swirl  in  her  bosom.  Beverley's  look,  as 
he  turned  and  left  her,  now  shook  every  chord  of  her 
being.  He  had  gone  to  his  death  at  her  command. 
How  strong  and  true  and  brave  he  was !  In  her  imagi 
nation  she  saw  the  flag  above  him,  saw  him  die  like  a 
panther  at  bay,  saw  the  gay  rag  snatched  down  and 


The  Honors  of  War  151 

torn  to  shreds  by  savage  hands.  It  was  the  tragedy 
of  a  single  moment,  enacted  in  a  flashlight  of  anticipa 
tion. 

She  released  Jean  so  suddenly  that  he  fell  to  the 
floor.  She  remembered  what  she  had  said  to  Bev- 
erley  on  the  night  of  the  dance  when  they  were  stand 
ing  under  the  flag. 

"You  made  it  and  set  it  up,"  he  lightly  remarked; 
"you  must  see  that  no  enemy  ever  gets  possession  of 
it,  especially  the  English." 

"I'll  take  it  down  and  hide  it  when  there's  danger 
of  that,"  she  said  in  the  same  spirit. 

And  now  she  stood  there  looking  at  Jean,  without 
seeing  him,  and  repeated  the  words  under  her  breath. 

"I'll  take  it  down  and  hide  it.    They  shan't  have  it." 

Madame  Roussillon  began  to  call  from  the  other 
room  in  a  loud,  complaining  voice ;  but  Alice  gave  no 
heed  to  her  querulous  demands. 

"Stay  here,  Jean,  and  take  care  of  Mama  Roussil 
lon,"  she  presently  said  to  the  hunchback.  "I  am 
going  out ;  I'll  be  back  soon ;  don't  you  dare  leave  the 
house  while  I'm  gone;  do  you  hear?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  answer;  but  snatching  a 
hood-iike  fur  cap  from  a  peg  on  the  wall,  she  put  it  on 
and  hastily  left  the  house. 

Down  at  the  fort  Helm  and  Beverley  were  making 
ready  to  resist  Hamilton's  attack,  which  they  knew 
would  not  be  long  deferred.  The  two  heavily  charged 
cannon  were  planted  so  as  to  cover  the  space  in  front 
of  the  gate,  and  some  loaded  muskets  were  ranged 
near  by  ready  for  use. 


152         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"We'll  give  them  one  hell  of  a  blast,"  growled  the 
Captain,  "before  they  overpower  us." 

Beverley  made  no  response  in  words;  but  he  was 
preparing  a  bit  of  tinder  on  the  end  of  a  stick  with 
which  to  fire  the  cannon.  Not  far  away  a  little  heap 
of  logs  was  burning  in  the  fort's  area. 

The  British  officer,  already  mentioned  as  at  the  head 
of  the  line  advancing  diagonally  from  the  river's  bank, 
halted  his  men  at  a  distance  of  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  fort,  and  seemed  to  be  taking  a  deliberately 
careful  survey  of  what  was  before  him. 

"Let  'em  come  a  little  nearer,  Lieutenant,"  said 
Helm,  his  jaw  setting  itself  like  a  lion's.  "When  we 
shoot  we  want  to  hit." 

He  stooped  and  squinted  along  his  gun. 

"When  they  get  to  that  weedy  spot  out  yonder,"  he 
added,  "just  opposite  the  little  rise  in  the  river  bank, 
we'll  turn  loose  on  'em." 

Beverley  had  arranged  his  primitive  match  to  suit 
his  fancy,  and  for  probably  the  twentieth  time  looked 
critically  to  the  powder  in  the  beveled  touch-hole  of 
his  old  cannon.  He  and  Helm  were  facing  the  enemy, 
with  their  backs  to  the  main  area  of  the  stockade,  when 
a  well  known  voice  attracted  their  attention  to  the  rear. 

"Any  room  for  a  feller  o'  my  size  in  this  here 
crowded  place  ?"  it  demanded  in  a  cracked  but  cheerful 
tenor.  "I'm  kind  o'  outen  breath  a  runnin'  to  git  here." 

They  turned  about.  It  was  Oncle  Jazon  with  his 
long  rifle  on  his  shoulder  and  wearing  a  very  import 
ant  air.  He  spoke  in  English,  using  the  backwoods 
lingo  with  the  ease  of  long  practice. 


The  Honors  of  War  153 

"As  I's  a  comin'  in  f'om  a  huntin'  I  tuck  notice  'at 
somepin'  was  up.  I  see  a  lot  o'  boats  on  the  river  arf 
some  fellers  wi'  guns  a  scootin'  around,  so  I  jes' 
slipped  by  'em  all  an'  come  in  the  back  way.  They's 
plenty  of  'em,  I  tell  you  what!  I  can't  shoot  much, 
but  I  tuck  one  chance  at  a  buck  Indian  out  yander  and 
jes'  happened  to  hit  'im  in  the  lef  eye.  He  was  one 
of  the  gang  'at  scalped  me  down  yander  in  Kaintuck." 

The  greasy  old  sinner  looked  as  if  he  had  not  been 
washed  since  he  was  born.  He  glanced  about  with 
furtive,  shifty  eyes,  grimaced  and  winked,  after  the 
manner  of  an  animal  just  waking  from  a  lazy  nap. 

"Where's  the  rest  o'  the  fighters?"  he  demanded 
quizzically,  lolling  out  his  tongue  and  peeping  past 
Helm  so  as  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  English  line. 
"Where's  yer  garrison?  Have  they  all  gone  to  break- 
fas'?" 

The  last  question  set  Helm  off  again  cursing  and 
swearing  in  the  most  melodramatic  rage. 

Oncle  Jazon  turned  to  Beverley  and  said  in  rapid 
French:  "Surely  the  man's  not  going  to  fight  those 
fellows  yonder?" 

Beverley  nodded  rather  gloomily. 

"Well,"  added  the  old  man,  fingering  his  rifle's  stock 
and  taking  another  glance  through  the  gate,  "I  can't 
shoot  wo'th  a  cent,  bein'  sort  o'  nervous  like ;  but  I'll 
stan'  by  ye  awhile,  jes'  for  luck.  I  might  accidentally 
hit  one  of  'em." 

When  a  man  is  truly  brave  himself  there  is  nothing 
that  touches  him  like  an  exhibition  of  absolutely  utt^ 


154         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

selfish  gameness  in  another.  A  rush  of  admiration  for 
Oncle  Jazon  made  Beverley  feel  like  hugging  him. 

Meantime  the  young  British  officer  showed  a  flag  of 
truce,  and,  with  a  file  of  men,  separated  himself  from 
the  line,  now  stationary,  and  approached  the  stockade* 
'At  a  hundred  yards  he  halted  the  file  and  came  on 
alone,  waving  the  white  clout.  He  boldly  advanced 
to  within  easy  speaking  distance  and  shouted : 

"I  demand  the  surrender  of  this  fort." 

"Well,  you'll  not  get  it,  young  man,"  roared  Helm, 
his  profanity  well  mixed  in  with  the  words,  "not  while 
there's  a  man  of  us  left !" 

"Ye'd  better  use  sof  soap  on  'im,  Cap'n,"  said  Oncle 
Jazon  in  English,  "cussin'  won't  do  no  good."  While 
he  spoke  he  rubbed  the  doughty  Captain's  arm  and 
then  patted  it  gently. 

Helm,  who  was  not  half  as  excited  as  he  pretended 
to  be,  knew  that  Oncle  Jazon's  remark  was  the  very 
essence  of  wisdom;  but  he  was  not  yet  ready  for  the 
diplomatic  language  which  the  old  trooper  called  "soft 
soap." 

"Are  you  the  British  commander?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  said  the  officer,  "but  I  speak  for  him." 

"Not  to  me  by  a  damned  sight,  sir.  Tell  your  com 
mander  that  I  will  hear  what  he  has  to  say  from  his 
own  mouth.  No  understrapper  will  be  recognized 
by  me." 

That  ended  the  conference.  The  young  officer,  evi 
dently  indignant,  strode  back  to  his  line,  and  an  hour 
later  Hamilton  himself  demanded  the  unconditional 
surrender  of  the  fort  and  garrison. 


The  Honors  of  War  155 

"Fight  for  it,"  Helm  stormed  forth.  "We  are  sol 
diers." 

Hamilton  held  a  confab  with  his  officers,  while  his 
forces,  under  cover  of  the  town's  cabins,  were  deploy 
ing  so  as  to  form  a  half  circle  about  the  stockade. 
Some  artillery  appeared  and  was  planted  directly  oppo 
site  the  gate,  not  three  hundred  yards  distant.  One 
blast  of  that  battery  would,  as  Helm  well  knew,  level 
a  large  part  of  the  stockade. 

"S'posin'  I  hev'  a  cannon,  too,  seein'  it's  the  fashion," 
said  Oncle  Jazon.  "I  can't  shoot  much,  but  I  might 
skeer  'em.  This  little  one  '11  do  me." 

He  set  his  rifle  against  the  wall  and  with  Beverley's 
help  rolled  one  of  the  swivels  alongside  the  guns  al 
ready  in  position. 

In  a  few  minutes  Hamilton  returned  under  the 
white  flag  and  shouted : 

"Upon  what  terms  will  you  surrender?" 

"All  the  honors  of  war,"  Helm  firmly  replied.  "It's 
that  or  fight,  and  I  don't  care  a  damn  which !" 

Hamilton  half  turned  away,  as  if  done  with  the  par 
ley,  then  facing  the  fort  again,  said : 

"Very  well,  sir,  haul  down  your  flag." 

Helm  was  dum  founded  at  this  prompt  acceptance 
of  his  terms.  Indeed  the  incident  is  unique  in  history. 

As  Hamilton  spoke  he  very  naturally  glanced  up  to 
where  la  banniere  d' Alice  Roussillon  waved  bril 
liantly.  Someone  stood  beside  it  on  the  dilapidated 
roof  of  the  old  blockhouse,  and  was  already  taking  it 
from  its  place.  His  aid,  Captain  Farnsworth,  saw  this, 
and  the  vision  made  his  heart  draw  in  a  strong,  hot 


156         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

flood.  It  was  a  girl  in  short  skirts  and  moccasins,  with 
a  fur  hood  on  her  head,  her  face,  thrillingly  beautiful, 
set  around  with  fluffs  of  wind-blown  brown-gold  hair. 
Farnsworth  was  too  young  to  be  critical  and  too 
old  to  let  his  eyes  deceive  him.  Every  detail  of  the 
fine  sketch,  with  its  steel-blue  background  of  sky, 
flashed  into  his  mind,  sharp-cut  as  a  cameo.  Involun 
tarily  he  took  off  his  hat. 

Alice  had  come  in  by  way  of  the  postern.  She 
mounted  to  the  roof  unobserved,  and  made  her  way 
to  the  flag,  just  at  the  moment  when  Helm,  glad  at 
heart  to  accept  the  easiest  way  out  of  a  tight  place, 
asked  Oncle  Jazon  to  lower  it. 

Beverley  was  thinking  of  Alice,  and  when  he  looked 
up  he  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  saw  her;  but  the 
whole  situation  was  plain  the  instant  she  snatched  the 
staff  from  its  place;  for  he,  too,  recollected  what  she 
had  said  at  the  river  house.  The  memory  and  the 
present  scene  blended  perfectly  during  the  fleeting 
instant  that  she  was  visible.  He  saw  that  Alice  was 
smiling  somewhat  as  in  her  most  mischievous  moods, 
and  when  she  jerked  the  staff  from  its  fastening  she 
lifted  it  high  and  waved  it  once,  twice,  thrice  defiantly 
toward  the  British  lines,  then  fled  down  the  ragged 
roof -slope  with  it  and  disappeared.  The  vision  re 
mained  in  Beverley's  eyes  forever  afterward.  The 
English  troops,  thinking  that  the  flag  was  taken  down 
in  token  of  surrender,  broke  into  a  wild  tumult  of 
shouting. 

Oncle  Jazon  intuitively  understood  just  what  Alice 


The  Honors  of  War  157 

was  doing,  for  he  knew  her  nature  and  could  read  her 
face.  His  blood  effervesced  in  an  instant. 

"Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!  Vive  la  bannibre  d' Alice 
Roussillon!"  he  screamed,  waving  his  disreputable  cap 
round  his  scalpless  head.  "Hurrah  for  George  Wash 
ington  !  Hurrah  for  Alice  Roussillon's  flag !" 

It  was  all  over  soon.  Helm  surrendered  himself  and 
Beverley  with  full  honors.  As  for  Oncle  Jazon,  he 
disappeared  at  the  critical  moment.  It  was  not  just 
to  his  mind  to  be  a  prisoner  of  war,  especially  under 
existing  conditions;  for  Hamilton's  Indian  allies  had 
some  old  warpath  scores  to  settle  with  him  dating  back 
to  the  days  when  he  and  Simon  Kenton  were  comrades 
in  Kentucky. 

When  Alice  snatched  the  banner  and  descended  with 
it  to  the  ground,  she  ran  swiftly  out  through  the 
postern,  as  she  had  once  before  done,  and  sped  along 
under  cover  of  the  low  bluff  or  swell,  which,  terrace- 
like,  bounded  the  flat  "bottom"  lands  southward  of  the 
stockade.  She  kept  on  until  she  reached  a  point  op 
posite  Father  Beret's  hut,  to  which  she  then  ran,  the 
flag  streaming  bravely  behind  her  in  the  wind,  her 
heart  beating  time  to  her  steps. 

It  was  plainly  a  great  surprise  to  Father  Beret,  who 
looked  up  from  his  prayer  when  she  rushed  in,  making 
a  startling  clatter,  the  loose  puncheons  shaking  to 
gether  under  her  reckless  feet. 

"Oh,  Father,  here  it  is !    Hide  it,  hide  it,  quick !" 

She  thrust  the  flag  toward  him. 

"They  shall  not  have  it !    They  shall  never  have  it  !"• 


158          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

He  opened  wide  his  shrewd,  kindly  eyes;  but  did 
not  fairly  comprehend  her  meaning. 

She  was  panting,  half  laughing,  half  crying.  Her 
hair,  wildly  disheveled,  hung  in  glorious  masses  over 
her  shoulders.  Her  face  beamed  triumphantly. 

"They  are  taking  the  fort,"  she  breathlessly  added, 
again  urging  the  flag  upon  him,  "they're  going  in,  but 
I  got  this  and  ran  away  with  it.  Hide  it,  Father, 
hide  it,  quick,  quick,  before  they  come !" 

The  daring  light  in  her  eyes,  the  witching  play  of 
her  dimples,  the  madcap  air  intensified  by  her  attitude 
and  the  excitement  of  the  violent  exercise  just  ended 
— something  compounded  of  all  these  and  more — af 
fected  the  good  priest  strangely.  Involuntarily  he 
crossed  himself,  as  if  against  a  dangerous  charm. 

"Mon  Dieu,  Father  Beret,"  she  exclaimed  with  im 
patience,  "haven't  you  a  grain  of  sense  left  ?  Take  this 
flag  and  hide  it,  I  tell  you!  Don't  stay  there  gazing 
and  blinking.  Here,  quick!  They  s*w  me  take  it, 
they  may  be  following  me.  Hurry,  hide  it  some 
where!" 

He  comprehended  now,  rising  from  his  knees  with 
a  queer  smile  broadening  on  his  face.  Sh*i  put  the  ban 
ner  into  his  hands  and  gave  him  a  gentle  push. 

"Hide  it,  I  tell  you,  hide  it,  you  dear  eld  goose  1" 

Without  speaking  he  turned  the  staff  over  and  over 
in  his  hand,  until  the  flag  was  closely  wrapped  around 
it,  then  stooping  he  lifted  a  puncheon  and  with  it  cov 
ered  the  gay  roll  from  sight. 

Alice  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him  vigor- 


The  Honors  of  War  159 

ously  on  the  cheek.  Her  warm  lips  made  the  spot 
tingle. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  let  any  person  have  it !  It's  the 
flag  of  George  Washington." 

She  gave  him  a  strong  squeeze. 

He  pushed  her  from  him  with  both  hands  and 
hastily  crossed  himself ;  but  his  eyes  were  laughing. 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  me;  I  waved  the  flag  at 
them — at  the  English — and  one  young  officer  took  off 
his  hat  to  me!  Oh,  Father  Beret,  it  was  like  what  is 
in  a  novel.  They'll  get  the  fort,  but  not  the  banner! 
Not  the  banner !  I've  saved  it,  I've  saved  it !" 

Her  enthusiasm  gave  a  splendor  to  her  countenance, 
heightening  its  riches  of  color  and  somehow  adding 
to  its  natural  girlish  expression  an  audacious  sweet 
ness.  The  triumphant  success  of  her  undertaking  lent 
the  dignity  of  conscious  power  to  her  look,  a  dignity 
which  always  sits  well  upon  a  young  and  somewhat 
immaturely  beautiful  face. 

Father  Beret  could  not  resist  her  fervid  eloquence, 
and  he  could  not  run  away  from  her  or  stop  up  his 
ears  while  she  went  on.  So  he  had  to  laugh  when  she 
said: 

"Oh,  if  you  had  seen  it  all  you  would  have  enjoyed  it. 
There  was  Oncle  Jazon  squatting  behind  the  little 
swivel,  and  there  were  Captain  Helm  and  Lieutenant 
Beverley  holding  their  burning  sticks  over  the  big 
cannon  ready  to  shoot — all  of  them  so  intent  that  they 
didn't  see  me — and  yonder  came  the  English  officer 
and  his  army  against  the  three.  When  they  got  close 
to  the  gate  the  officer  called  out:  'Surrender!'  and 


160         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

then  Captain  Helm  yelled  back:  'Damned  if  I  do! 
Come  another  step  and  I'll  blow  you  all  to  hell  in  a 
second!'  I  was  mightily  in  hopes  that  they'd  come 
on ;  I  wanted  to  see  a  cannon  ball  hit  that  English  com 
mander  right  in  the  face ;  he  looked  so  arrogant." 

Father  Beret  shook  his  head  and  tried  to  look  dis 
approving  and  solemn. 

Meantime  down  at  the  fort  Hamilton  was  demand 
ing  the  flag.  He  had  seen  Alice  take  it  down,  and  sup 
posed  that  it  was  lowered  officially  and  would  be  turned 
over  to  him.  Now  he  wanted  to  handle  it  as  the  best 
token  of  his  bloodless  but  important  victory. 

"I  didn't  order  the  flag  down  until  after  I  had  ac 
cepted  your  terms,"  said  Helm,  "and  when  my  man 
started  to  obey,  we  saw  a  young  lady  snatch  it  and 
run  away  with  it." 

"Who  was  the  girl?" 

"I  do  not  inform  on  women,"  said  Helm. 

Hamilton  smiled  grimly,  with  a  vexed  look  in  his 
eyes,  then  turned  to  Captain  Farnsworth  and  ordered 
him  to  bring  up  M.  Roussillon,  who,  when  he  ap 
peared,  still  had  his  hands  tied  together. 

"Tell  me  the  name  of  the  young  woman  who  carried 
away  the  flag  from  the  fort.  You  saw  her,  you  know 
every  soul  in  this  town.  Who  was  it,  sir  ?" 

It  was  a  hard  question  for  M.  Roussillon  to  answer. 
Although  his  humiliating  captivity  had  somewhat 
cowed  him,  still  his  love  for  Alice  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  give  the  information  demanded  by  Hamil 
ton.  He  choked  and  stammered,  but  finally  managed 
to  say: 


The  Honors  of  War  161 

"I  assure  you  that  I  don't  know — I  didn't  look — I 
didn't  see — It  was  too  far  off  for  me  to— I  was  some 
what  excited — I " 

"Take  him  away.  Keep  him  securely  bound,"  said 
Hamilton.  "Confine  him.  We'll  see  how  long  it  will 
take  to  refresh  his  mind.  We'll  puncture  the  big  wind- 
bag." 

While  this  curt  scene  was  passing,  the  flag  of  Great 
Britain  rose  over  the  fort  to  the  lusty  cheering  of  the 
victorious  soldiers. 

Hamilton  treated  Helm  and  Beverley  with  extreme 
courtesy.  He  was  a  soldier,  gruff,  unscrupulous  and 
cruel  to  a  degree ;  but  he  could  not  help  admiring  the 
daring  behavior  of  these  two  officers  who  had  wrung 
from  him  the  best  terms  of  surrender.  He  gave  them 
full  liberty,  on  parole  of  honor  not  to  attempt  escape 
or  to  aid  in  any  way  an  enemy  against  him  while  they 
were  prisoners. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  Helm's  genial  and  sociable 
disposition  won  the  Englishman's  respect  and  confi 
dence  to  such  an  extent  that  the  two  became  almost 
inseparable  companions,  playing  cards,  brewing  tod 
dies,  telling  stories,  and  even  shooting  deer  in  the 
woods  together,  as  if  they  had  always  been  the  best  of 
friends. 

Hamilton  did  not  permit  his  savage  allies  to  enter 
the  town,  and  he  immediately  required  the  French 
inhabitants  to  swear  allegiance  to  Great  Britain,  which 
they  did  with  apparent  heartiness,  all  save  M.  Roussil- 
lon,  who  was  kept  in  close  confinement  and  bound  like 
a  felon,  chafing  lugubriously  and  wearing  the  air  of  a 


162         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

martyr.  His  prison  was  a  little  log  pen  in  one  corner 
of  the  stockade,  much  open  to  the  weather,  its  gaping 
cracks  giving  him  a  dreary  view  of  the  frozen  land 
scape  through  which  the  Wabash  flowed  in  a  broad 
steel-gray  current.  Helm,  who  really  liked  him,  tried 
in  vain  to  procure  his  release;  but  Hamilton  was  in 
exorable  on  account  of  what  he  regarded  as  duplicity 
in  M.  Roussillon's  conduct. 

"No,  I'll  let  him  reflect,"  he  said;  "there's  nothing 
like  a  little  tyranny  to  break  up  a  bad  case  of  self-im 
portance.  He'll  soon  find  out  that  he  has  over-rated 
himself !" 


CHAPTER  X 

If.    ROUSSILLON   ENTERTAINS   COLONEL  HAMILTON 

A  day  or  two  after  the  arrival  of  Hamilton  the  ab 
sent  garrison  of  buffalo  hunters  straggled  back  to 
Vincennes  and  were  duly  sworn  to  demean  them 
selves  as  lawful  subjects  of  Great  Britain.  Rene  de 
Ronville  was  among  the  first  to  take  the  oath,  and  it 
promptly  followed  that  Hamilton  ordered  him  pressed 
into  service  as  a  wood-chopper  and  log-hauler  during 
the  erection  of  a  new  blockhouse,  large  barracks  and 
the  making  of  some  extensive  repairs  of  the  stockade. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  humiliating  to  the 
proud  young  Frenchman.  Every  day  he  had  to  report 
bright  and  early  to  a  burly  Irish  Corporal  and  be  or 
dered  about,  as  if  he  had  been  a  slave,  cursed  at, 
threatened  and  forced  to  work  until  his  hands  were 
blistered  and  his  muscles  sore.  The  bitterest  part  of 
it  all  was  that  he  had  to  trudge  past  both  Roussillon 
place  and  the  Bourcier  cabin  with  the  eyes  of  Alice  and 
Adrienne  upon  him. 

Hamilton  did  not  forget  M.  Roussillon  in  this  con 
nection.  The  giant  orator  soon  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  a  greater  trial  even  than  Rene's.  He 
was  calmly  told  by  the  English  commander  that  he 
could  choose  between  death  and  telling  who  it  was 
that  stole  the  flag. 

"I'll  have  you  shot,  sir,  to-morrow  morning  if  you 
prevaricate  about  this  thing  any  longer,"  said  Hamil- 

163 


164        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

foil,  with  a  right  deadly  strain  in  his  voice.  "Yoa 
told  me  that  you  knew  every  man,  woman  and  child 
in  Vincennes  at  sight.  I  know  that  you  saw  that  girl 
take  the  flag — lying  does  not  serve  your  turn.  I  give 
you  until  this  evening  to  tell  me  who  she  is;  if  you 
fail,  you  die  at  sunrise  to-morrow." 

In  fact,  it  may  be  that  Hamilton  did  not  really  pur 
pose  to  carry  out  this  blood-thirsty  threat ;  most  prob 
ably  he  relied  upon  M.  Roussillon's  imagination  to 
torture  him  successfully ;  but  the  effect,  as  time  proved, 
could  not  be  accurately  foreseen. 

Captain  Famsworth  had  energy  enough  for  a  dozen 
ordinary  men.  Before  he  had  been  in  Vincennes 
twelve  hours  he  had  seen  every  nook  and  corner  of  its 
surface.  Nor  was  his  activity  due  altogether  to  mili 
tary  ardor,  although  he  never  let  pass  an  opportunity 
to  serve  the  best  interests  of  his  commander;  all  the 
while  his  mind  was  on  the  strikingly  beautiful  girl 
whose  saucy  countenance  had  so  dazzled  him  from  the 
roof-top  of  the  fort,  what  time  she  wrenched  away  the 
rebel  flag. 

"I'll  find  her,  high  or  low,"  he  thought,  "for  I  never 
could  fail  to  recognize  that  face.  She's  a  trump." 

It  was  not  in  Alice's  nature  to  hide  from  the  English. 
They  had  held  the  town  and  fort  before  Helm  came, 
and  she  had  not  found  them  troublesome  under  Ab 
bott.  She  did  not  know  that  M.  Roussillon  was  a  pris 
oner,  the  family  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  had  gone 
away  to  avoid  the  English.  Nor  was  she  aware  that 
Hamilton  felt  so  keenly  the  disappearance  of  the  flag. 
What  she  did  know,  and  it  gladdened  her  greatly,  was 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains        165 

that  Beverley  had  been  well  treated  by  his  captor. 
With  this  in  her  heart  she  went  about  Roussillon  place 
singing  merry  snatches  of  Creole  songs ;  and  when  at 
the  gate,  which  still  hung  lop-sided  on  account  of  Bev- 
erley's  force  in  shutting  it,  she  came  unexpectedly  face 
to  face  with  Captain  Farns worth,  there  was  no  great 
surprise  on  her  part. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  very  politely;  but  a 
bold  smile  broke  over  his  somewhat  ruddy  face.  He 
spoke  in  French,  but  in  a  drawling  tone  and  with  a 
bad  accent: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mademoiselle ;  I  am  right  glad  to 
see  you  again." 

Alice  drew  back  a  pace  or  two.  She  was  quick  to 
understand  his  allusion,  and  she  shrank  from  him, 
fearing  that  he  was  going  to  inquire  about  the  flag. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  laughed.  "I  am  not  so  danger 
ous.  I  never  did  hurt  a  girl  in  all  my  life.  In  fact,  I 
am  fond  of  them  when  they're  nice." 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid,"  she  replied,  assuming 
an  air  of  absolute  dismissal,  "and  you  don't  look  a  bit 
ferocious,  Monsieur.  You  may  pass  on,  if  you  please." 

He  flushed  and  bit  his  lip,  probably  to  keep  back 
some  hasty  retort,  and  thought  rapidly  for  a  moment. 
She  looked  straight  at  him  with  eyes  that  stirred  and 
dazzled  him.  He  was  handsome  in  a  coarse  way,  like 
a  fine  young  animal,  well  groomed,  well  fed,  magnetic, 
forceful;  but  his  boldness,  being  of  a  sort  to  which 
she  had  not  been  accustomed,  disturfceji  her  vaguely 
and  strangely. 

"Suppose  that  I  don't  pass  on?"  he  presently  ven* 


i66         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

lured,  with  just  a  suspicion  of  insolence  in  his  attitude, 
but  laughing  until  he  showed  teeth  of  remarkable 
beauty  and  whiteness.  "Suppose  that  I  should  wish 
to  have  a  little  chat  with  you,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"I  have  been  told  that  there  are  men  in  the  world 
who  think  themselves  handsome,  and  clever,  and  bril 
liant,  when  in  fact  they  are  but  conceited  simpletons,'* 
she  remarked,  rather  indifferently,  muffling  herself  in 
her  fur  wrap.  "You  certainly  would  be  a  fairly  good 
hitching-post  for  our  horses  if  you  never  moved." 
Then  she  laughed  out  of  the  depth  of  her  hood,  a  per 
fectly  merry  laugh,  but  not  in  the  least  flattering  to 
Captain  Farnsworth's  vanity.  He  felt  the  scorn  that 
it  conveyed. 

His  face  grew  redder,  while  a  flash  from  hers  made 
him  wish  that  he  had  been  more  gracious  in  his  de 
portment.  Here,  to  his  surprise,  was  not  a  mere  Creole 
girl  of  the  wild  frontier. 

Her  superiority  struck  him  with  the  force  of  a  cap 
tivating  revelation,  under  the  light  of  which  he  blinked 
and  winced. 

She  laid  a  shapely  hand  on  the  broken  gate  and 
pushed  it  open. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle;"  his  manner 
softened  as  he  spoke ;  "I  beg  your  pardon ;  but  I  came 
to  speak  to  you  about  the  flag — the  flag  you  took  away 
from  the  fort." 

She  had  been  half  expecting  this ;  but  she  was  quite 
unprepared,  and  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do  showed 
embarrassment. 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains         167 

"I  have  come  to  get  the  flag ;  if  you  will  kindly  bring 
it  to  me,  or  tell  me  where  it  is  I " 

She  quickly  found  words  to  interrupt  him  with,  and 
at  the  same  time  by  a  great  effort  pulled  herself  to 
gether. 

"You  have  come  to  the  wrong  place,"  she  flung  in. 
"I  assure  you  that  I  haven't  the  flag." 

"You  took  it  down,  Mademoiselle." 

"Oh,  did  I?" 

"With  bewitching  grace  you  did,  Mademoiselle.  I 
rfaw  and  admired.  Will  you  fetch  it,  please?" 

"Indeed  I  won't." 

The  finality  in  her  voice  belied  her  face,  which 
teamed  without  a  ray  of  stubbornness  or  perversity. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  interpret  her ;  but  he  felt  that 
he  had  begun  wrong.  He  half  regretted  that  he  had 
begun  at  all. 

"More  depends  upon  returning  that  flag  than  you 
are  probably  aware  of,"  he  presently  said  in  a  more 
serious  tone.  "In  fact,  the  life  of  one  of  your  towns 
men,  and  a  person  of  some  importance  here  I  believe, 
will  surely  be  saved  by  it.  You'd  better  consider, 
Mademoiselle.  You  wouldn't  like  to  cause  the  death 
of  a  man." 

She  did  not  fairly  grasp  the  purport  of  his  words; 
yet  the  change  in  his  manner,  and  the  fact  that  he 
turned  from  French  to  English  in  making  the  state 
ment,  aroused  a  sudden  feeling  of  dread  or  dark  ap 
prehension  in  her  breast.  The  first  distinct  thought 
was  of  Beverley — that  some  deadly  danger  threatened 
him. 


168          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Who  is  it?"  she  frankly  demanded. 

"It's  the  Mayor,  the  big  man  of  your  town,  Monsieur 
Roussillon,  I  think  he  calls  himself.  He's  got  him 
self  into  a  tight  place.  He'll  be  shot  to-morrow  morn 
ing  if  that  flag  is  not  produced.  Governor  Hamilton 
has  so  ordered,  and  what  he  orders  is  done." 

"You  jest,  Monsieur." 

"I  assure  you  that  I  speak  the  plain  truth." 

"You  will  probably  catch  Monsieur  Roussillon  be 
fore  you  shoot  him."  She  tossed  her  head. 

"He  is  already  a  prisoner  in  the  fort." 

Alice  turned  pale. 

"Monsieur,  is  this  true?"  Her  voice  had  lost  its 
happy  tone.  "Are  you  telling  me  that  to " 

"You  can  verify  it,  Mademoiselle,  by  calling  upon 
the  commander  at  the  fort.  I  am  sorry  that  you  doubt 
my  veracity.  If  you  will  go  with  me  I  will  show  you 
M.  Roussillon  a  tightly  bound  prisoner." 

jean  had  crept  out  of  the  gate  and  was  standing  just 
behind  Alice  with  his  feet  wide  apart,  his  long  chin 
elevated,  his  head  resting  far  back  between  his  up- 
thrust  shoulders,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  uncanny 
eyes  gazing  steadily  at  Farnsworth.  He  looked  like 
a  deformed  frog  ready  to  jump. 

Alice  unmistakably  saw  truth  in  the  Captain's  coun 
tenance  and  felt  it  in  his  voice.  The  reality  came  to 
her  with  unhindered  effect.  M.  Roussillon's  life  de 
pended  upon  the  return  of  the  flag.  She  put  her  hands 
together  and  for  a  moment  covered  her  eyes  with 
them. 

"I  will  go  now,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Farnsworth; 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains         169 

"but  I  hope  you  will  be  in  great  haste  about  returning 
the  flag." 

He  stood  looking  at  her.  He  was  profoundly  touched 
and  felt  that  to  say  more  would  be  too  brutal  even  for 
his  coarse  nature ;  so  he  simply  lifted  his  hat  and  went 
away. 

Jean  took  hold  of  Alice's  dress  as  she  turned  to  go 
back  into  the  house. 

"Is  he  going  to  take  the  flag?  Can  he  find  it? 
What  does  he  want  with  it  ?  What  did  you  do  with  the 
flag,  Alice?"  he  whined,  in  his  peculiar,  quavering 
voice.  "Where  is  it  ?" 

Her  skirt  dragged  him  along  as  she  walked. 

"Where  did  you  put  it,  Alice?" 

"Father  Beret  hid  it  under  his  floor,"  she  answered, 
involuntarily,  and  almost  unconsciously.  "I  shall  have 
to  take  it  back  and  give  it  up." 

"No— no — I  wouldn't,"  he  quavered,  dancing  across 
the  veranda  as  she  quickened  her  pace  and  fairly  spun 
him  along.  "I  wouldn't  let  'em  have  it  at  all." 

Alice's  mind  was  working  with  lightning  speed.  Her 
imagination  took  strong  grip  on  the  situation  so  briefly 
and  effectively  sketched  by  Captain  Farnsworth.  Hei 
decision  formed  itself  quickly. 

"Stay  here,  Jean.  I  am  going  to  the  fort.  Don't 
tell  Mama  Roussillon  a  thing.  Be  a  good  boy." 

She  was  gone  before  Jean  could  say  a  word.  She 
meant  to  face  Hamilton  at  once  and  be  sure  what  dan 
ger  menaced  M.  Roussillon.  Of  course,  the  flag  must 
be  given  up  if  that  would  save  her  foster  father  any 


Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

pain ;  and  if  his  life  were  in  question  there  could  nos 
be  too  great  haste  on  her  part. 

She  ran  directly  to  the  stockade  gate  and  breath 
lessly  informed  a  sentinel  that  she  must  see  Governor 
Hamilton,  into  whose  presence  she  was  soon  led.  Cap 
tain  Farnsworth  had  preceded  her  but  a  minute  or 
two,  and  was  present  when  she  entered  the  miserable 
shed  room  where  the  commander  was  having  another 
talk  with  M.  Roussillon. 

The  meeting  was  a  tableau  which  would  have  been 
comical  but  for  the  pressure  of  its  tragic  possibilities. 
Hamilton,  stern  and  sententious,  stood  frowning  upon 
M.  Roussillon,  who  sat  upon  the  ground,  his  feet  and 
hands  tightly  bound,  a  colossal  statue  of  injured  in 
nocence. 

Alice,  as  soon  as  she  saw  M.  Roussillon,  uttered  a 
cry  of  sympathetic  endearment  and  flung  herself 
toward  him  with  open  arms.  She  could  not  reach 
around  his  great  shoulders;  but  she  did  her  best  to 
include  the  whole  bulk. 

"Papa!  Papa  Roussillon!"  she  chirruped  between 
the  kisses  that  she  showered  upon  his  weather-beaten 
face. 

Hamilton  and  Farnsworth  regarded  the  scene  with 
curious  and  surprised  interest.  M.  Roussillon  began 
speaking  rapidly ;  but  being  a  Frenchman  he  could  not 
get  on  well  with  his  tongue  while  his  hands  were  tied. 
He  could  shrug  his  shoulders ;  that  helped  him  some. 

"I  am  to  be  shot,  ma  petite"  he  pathetically  growled 
in  his  deep  bass  voice ;  "shot  like  a  dog  at  sunrise  to- 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains         171 

Alice  kissed  M.  Roussillon's  rough  cheek  ence  more 
and  sprang  to  her  feet  facing  Hamilton. 

"You  are  not  such  a  fiend  and  brute  as  to  kill  Papa 
Roussillon,"  she  cried.  "Why  do  you  want  to  injure 
my  poor,  good  papa  ?" 

"I  believe  you  are  the  young  lady  that  stole  the 
flag?"  Hamilton  remarked,  smiling  contemptuously. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  swift  flash  of  indignation 
as  he  uttered  these  words. 

"I  am  not  a  thief.  I  could  not  steal  what  was  my 
own.  I  helped  to  make  that  flag.  It  was  named  after 
me.  I  took  it  because  it  was  mine.  You  understand 
me,  Monsieur." 

"Tell  where  it  is  and  your  father's  life  will  be 
spared." 

She  glanced  at  M.  Roussillon. 

"No,  Alice,"  said  he,  with  a  pathetically  futile  ef 
fort  to  make  a  fine  gesture,  "don't  do  it.  I  am  brave 
enough  to  die.  You  would  not  have  me  act  the 
coward." 

No  onlooker  would  have  even  remotely  suspected 
the  fact  that  M.  Roussillon  had  chanced  to  overhear 
a  conversation  between  Hamilton  and  Farnsworth,  in 
which  Hamilton  stated  that  he  really  did  not  intend 
to  hurt  M.  Roussillon  in  any  event;  he  merely  pur* 
posed  to  humiliate  the  "big  wind-bag!" 

"Ah,  no ;  let  me  die  bravely  for  honor's  sake — I  fear 
death  far  less  than  dishonor !  They  can  shoot  me,  my 
little  one,  but  they  cannot  break  my  proud  spirit."  He 
tried  to  strike  his  breast  over  his  heart. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be   just  as  well  to  let   him  t* 


172         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

shot,"  said  Hamilton  gruffly,  and  with  dry  indiffer 
ence.  "I  don't  fancy  that  he's  of  much  value  to  the 
community  at  best.  He'll  make  a  good  target  for  a 
squad,  and  we  need  an  example." 

"Do  you  mean  it? — you  ugly  English  brute — would 
you  murder  him?"  she  stamped  her  foot. 

"Not  if  I  get  that  flag  between  now  and  sundown. 
Otherwise  I  shall  certainly  have  him  shot.  It  is  all  in 
your  hands,  Mademoiselle.  You  can  tell  me  where 
the  flag  is."  Hamilton  smiled  again  with  exquisite 
cruelty. 

Farnsworth  stood  by  gazing  upon  Alice  in  open  ad 
miration.  Her  presence  had  power  in  it,  to  which  he 
was  very  susceptible. 

"You  look  like  a  low,  dishonorable,  soulless  tyrant," 
she  said  to  Hamilton,  "and  if  you  get  my  flag,  how  shall 
I  know  that  you  will  keep  your  promise  and  let  Papa 
Roussillon  go  free?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  you  will  have  to  trust  me, 
unless  you'll  take  Captain  Farnsworth  for  security. 
The  Captain  is  a  gentleman,  I  assure  you.  Will  you 
stand  good  for  my  veracity  and  sincerity,  Captain 
Farnsworth  ?" 

The  young  man  smiled  and  bowed. 

Alice  felt  the  irony;  and  her  perfectly  frank  nature 
preferred  to  trust  rather  than  distrust  the  sincerity  of 
others.  She  looked  at  Farnsworth,  who  smiled  encour 
agingly. 

"The  flag  is  under  Father  Beret's  floor,"  she  said. 

"Under  the  church  floor?" 

"No,  under  the  floor  of  his  house." 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains        173 

"Where  is  his  house?" 

She  gave  full  directions  how  to  reach  it. 

"Untie  the  prisoner,"  Hamilton  ordered,  and  it  was 
quickly  done.  "Monsieur  Roussillon,  I  congratulate 
you  upon  your  narrow  escape.  Go  to  the  priest's 
house,  Monsieur,  and  bring  me  that  flag.  It  would  be 
well,  I  assure  you,  not  to  be  very  long  about  it.  Cap 
tain  Farnsworth,  you  will  send  a  guard  with  Monsieur 
Roussillon,  a  guard  of  honor,  fitting  his  official  dignity, 
a  Corporal  and  two  men.  The  honorable  Mayor  of  this 
important  city  should  not  go  alone  upon  so  important 
an  errand.  He  must  have  his  attendants." 

"Permit  me  to  go  myself  and  get  it,"  said  Alice.  "I 
can  do  it  quickly.  May  I,  please,  Monsieur?" 

Hamilton  looked  sharply  at  her. 

"Why,  certainly,  Mademoiselle,  certainly.  Captain 
Farnsworth,  you  will  escort  the  young  lady." 

"It  is  not  necessary,  Monsieur." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  necessary,  my  dear  young  lady,  very 
necessary;  so  let's  not  have  further  words.  I'll  try  to 
entertain  his  honor,  the  Mayor,  while  you  go  and  get 
the  flag.  I  feel  sure,  Mademoiselle,  that  you'll  return 
with  it  in  a  few  minutes.  But  you  must  not  go  alone." 

Alice  set  forth  immediately,  and  Farnsworth,  try 
as  hard  as  he  would,  could  never  reach  her  side,  so 
swift  was  her  gait. 

When  they  arrived  at  Father  Beret's  cabin,  she 
turned  and  said  with  imperious  severity: 

"Don't  you  come  in;  you  stay  out  here;  I'll  get  it 
in  a  minute." 

Farnsworth  obeyed  her  command. 


174         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

The  door  was  wide  open,  but  Father  Beret  was  not 
inside;  he  had  gone  to  see  a  sick  child  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  village.  Alice  looked  about  and  hesitated.  She 
knew  the  very  puncheon  that  covered  the  flag;  but  she 
shrank  from  lifting  it.  There  seemed  nothing  else  to 
do,  however;  so,  after  some  trouble  with  herself,  she 
knelt  upon  the  floor  and  turned  the  heavy  slab  over 
with  a  great  thump.  The  flag  did  not  appear.  She 
peeped  under  the  other  puncheons.  It  was  not  there. 
The  only  thing  visible  was  a  little  ball  of  paper  frag 
ments  not  larger  than  an  egg. 

Farnsworth  heard  her  utter  a  low  cry  of  surprise  or 
dismay,  and  was  on  the  point  of  going  in  when  Father 
Beret,  coming  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  con 
fronted  him.  The  meeting  was  so  sudden  and  unex 
pected  that  both  men  recoiled  slightly,  and  then,  with 
a  mutual  stare,  saluted. 

"I  came  with  a  young  lady  to  get  the  flag,"  said 
Farnsworth.  "She  is  inside.  I  hope  there  is  no  serious 
intrusion.  She  says  the  flag  is  hidden  under  your 
floor." 

Father  Beret  said  nothing,  but  frowning  as  if  much 
annoyed,  stepped  through  the  doorway  to  Alice's  side, 
and  stooping  where  she  knelt,  laid  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder  as  she  glanced  up  and  recognized  him. 

"What  are  you  doing,  my  child?" 

"Oh,  Father,  where  is  the  flag?"  It  was  all  that  she 
could  say.  "Where  is  the  flag?" 

"Why,  isn't  it  there?" 

"No,  you  see  it  isn't  there !     Where  is  it  ?" 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains        175 

The  priest  stood  as  if  dumfounded,  gazing  into  the 
vacant  space  uncovered  by  the  puncheon. 

"Is  it  gone?    Has  some  one  taken  it  away?" 

They  turned  up  all  the  floor  to  no  avail.  La  bannttre 
d' Alice  Roussillon  had  disappeared,  and  Captain 
Farnsworth  went  forthwith  to  report  the  fact  to  his 
commander.  When  he  reached  the  shed  at  the  angle 
of  the  fort  he  found  Governor  Hamilton  sitting  stupid 
and  dazed  on  the  ground.  One  jaw  was  inflamed  and 
swollen  and  an  eye  was  half  closed  and  bloodshot.  He 
turned  his  head  with  a  painful,  irregular  motion  and 
his  chin  sagged. 

Farnsworth  sprang  to  him  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet ; 
but  he  could  scarcely  stand.  He  licked  his  lips  clumsily. 

"What  is  the  matter?    What  hurt  you?" 

The  Governor  rubbed  his  forehead  trying  to  recol 
lect. 

"He  struck  me,"  he  presently  said  with  difficulty. 
"He  hit  me  with  his  fist.  Where — where  is  he?" 

"Who?" 

"That  big  French  idiot — that  Roussillon — go  after 
him,  take  him,  shoot  him — quick !  I  have  been  stunned ; 
I  don't  know  how  long  he's  been  gone.  Give  the 
alarm — do  something!" 

Hamilton,  as  he  gathered  his  wits  together,  began 
to  foam  with  rage,  and  his  passion  gave  his  bruised 
and  swollen  face  a  terrible  look. 

The  story  was  short,  and  may  be  quickly  told.  M. 
Roussillon  had  taken  advantage  of  the  first  moment 
when  he  and  Hamilton  were  left  alone.  One  herculean 
buffet,  a  swinging  smash  of  his  enormous  fist  on  the 


176         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

point  of  the  Governor's  jaw,  and  then  he  walked  out  of 
the  fort  unchallenged,  doubtless  on  account  of  his 
lordly  and  masterful  air. 

"Ziff  1"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  himself  and  lifting  his 
shoulders,  when  he  had  passed  beyond  hearing  of  the 
•entinel  at  the  gate,  "ziff!  I  can  punch  a  good  stiff 
stroke  yet,  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur.  Ah,  ziff  \"  and  he 
blew  like  a  porpoise. 

Every  effort  was  promptly  made  to  recapture  M. 
Roussillon;  but  his  disappearance  was  absolute;  even 
the  reward  offered  for  his  scalp  by  Hamilton  only  gave 
the  Indians  great  trouble — they  could  not  find  the 
man. 

Such  a  beginning  of  his  administration  of  affairs  at 
Vincennes  did  not  put  Hamilton  into  a  good  humor. 
He  was  overbearing  and  irascible  at  best,  and  under 
the  irritation  of  small  but  exceedingly  unpleasant  ex 
periences  he  made  life  well-nigh  unendurable  to  those 
upon  whom  his  dislike  chanced  to  fall.  Beverley 
quickly  felt  that  it  was  going  to  be  very  difficult  for 
him  and  Hamilton  to  get  along  agreeably.  With  Helm 
it  was  quite  different;  smoking,  drinking,  playing 
cards,  telling  good  stories — in  a  word,  rude  and  not 
unfrequently  boisterous  conviviality  drew  him  and  the 
tommandant  together. 

Under  Captain  Farnsworth's  immediate  supervision 
the  fort  was  soon  in  excellent  repair  and  a  large  block 
house  and  comfortable  quarters  for  the  men  were  built 
Every  day  added  to  the  strength  of  the  works  and  to 
the  importance  of  the  post  as  a  strategic  position  fof 
ithe  advance  guard  of  the  British  army, 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains         177 

Hamilton  was  ambitious  to  prove  himself  conspicu 
ously  valuable  to  his  country.  He  was  dreaming  vast 
dreams  and  laying  large  plans.  The  Indians  wert 
soon  anxious  to  gain  his  favor;  and  to  bind  them 
securely  to  him  he  offered  liberal  pay  in  rum  and  fire 
arms,  blankets,  trinkets  and  ammunition  for  the  scalps 
of  rebels.  He  kept  this  as  secret  as  possible  from  his 
prisoners ;  but  Beverley  soon  suspected  that  a  "traffic 
in  hair,"  as  the  terrible  business  had  been  named,  was 
going  on.  Savages  came  in  from  far  away  with  scalps 
yet  scarcely  dry  dangling  at  their  belts.  It  made  the 
young  Virginian's  blood  chill  in  his  heart,  and  he  re 
gretted  that  he  had  given  Hamilton  his  parole  of  honor 
not  to  attempt  to  escape. 

Among  the  Indians  occasionally  reporting  to  Ham 
ilton  with  their  ghastly  but  valuable  trophies  was 
Long-Hair,  who  slipped  into  the  fort  and  out  again 
rather  warily,  not  having  much  confidence  in  those 
Frenchmen  who  had  once  upon  a  time  given  him  a 
memorable  run  for  his  life. 

Winter  shut  down,  not  cold,  but  damp,  changeable, 
raw.  The  work  on  the  fort  was  nearly  completed, 
and  Rene  de  Ronville  would  have  soon  been  relieved 
of  his  servile  and  exasperating  employment  under  the 
Irish  Corporal ;  but  just  at  the  point  of  time  when  only 
a  few  days'  work  remained  for  him,  he  became  furious, 
on  account  of  an  insulting  remark,  and  struck  the  Cor 
poral  over  the  head  with  a  handspike.  This  happened 
in  a  wood  some  miles  from  town,  where  he  was  load 
ing  logs  upon  a  sled.  There  chanced  to  be  no  third 
person  present  when  the  deed  was  done,  and  some 


ijS        Alk*  of  Old  Vincennes 

hours  passed  before  they  found  the  officer  quite  cold 
and  stiff  beside  the  sled.  His  head  was  crushed  to  a 
pulp. 

Hamilton,  now  thoroughly  exasperated,  began  to 
look  upon  the  French  inhabitants  of  Vincennes  as  all 
]ike  M.  Roussillon  and  Rene,  but  waiting  for  an  op 
portunity  to  strike  him  unawares.  He  increased  his 
military  vigilance,  ordered  the  town  patrolled  day  and 
night,  and  forbade  public  gatherings  of  the  citizens, 
while  at  the  same  time  he  forced  them  to  furnish  him 
a  large  amount  of  provisions. 

When  little  Adrienne  Bourcier  heard  of  Rene's  ter 
rible  act,  followed  by  his  successful  escape  to  the 
woods,  and  of  the  tempting  reward  offered  by  Hamil 
ton  for  his  scalp,  she  ran  to  Roussillon  place  well-nigh 
crazed  with  excitement.  She  had  always  depended 
upon  Alice  for  advice,  encouragement  and  comfort  in 
her  troubles ;  but  in  the  present  case  there  was  not 
much  that  her  friend  could  do  to  cheer  her.  With  M. 
Roussillon  and  Rene  both  fugitives,  tracked  by  wily 
savages,  a  price  on  their  heads,  while  every  day  added 
new  dangers  to  the  French  inhabitants  of  Vincennes, 
no  rosy  view  could  possibly  be  taken  of  the  situation. 
Alice  did  her  best,  however,  to  strengthen  her  little 
friend's  faith  in  a  happy  outcome.  She  quoted  what  , 
she  considered  unimpeachable  authority  to  support  her 
optimistic  argument. 

"Lieutenant  Beverley  says  that  the  Americans  will 
be  sure  to  drive  Hamilton  out  of  Vincennes,  or  cap 
ture  him.  Probably  they  are  not  so  very  far  away 
now.  and  Rene  may  join  them  and  come  back  to  help 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains        179 

punish  these  brutal  Englishmen.     Don't  you  wish  he 
would,  Adrienne?    Wouldn't  it  be  romantic?" 

"He's  armed,  I  know  that,"  said  Adrienne,  bright 
ening  a  little,  "and  he's  brave,  Alice,  brave  as  can  be. 
He  came  right  back  into  town  the  other  night  and  got 
his  gun  and  pistols.  He  was  at  our  house,  too, 
and,  oh ! " 

She  burst  out  crying  again.  "O  Alice!  It  breaks 
my  heart  to  think  that  the  Indians  will  kill  him.  Do 
you  think  they  will  kill  him,  Alice?" 

"He'll  come  nearer  killing  them,"  said  Alice  confi 
dently,  with  her  strong,  warm  arms  around  the  tiny 
lass ;  "he's  a  good  woodsman,  a  fine  shot — he's  not  so 
easy  to  kill,  my  dear.  If  he  and  Papa  Roussillon  should 
get  together  by  chance  they  would  be  a  match  for  all 
the  Indians  in  the  country.  Anyway,  I  feel  that  it's 
much  better  for  them  to  take  their  chances  in  the 
woods  than  to  be  in  the  hands  of  Governor  Hamilton. 
If  I  were  a  man  I'd  do  just  as  Papa  Roussillon  and 
Rene  did;  I'd  break  the  bigoted  head  of  every  Eng 
lishman  that  mistreated  me.  I'll  do  it,  girl  as  I  am,  if 
they  annoy  me,  see  if  I  don't !" 

She  was  thinking  of  Captain  Farnsworth,  who  had 
been  from  the  first  untiring  in  his  efforts  to  gain  some 
thing  more  than  a  passing  acquaintance.  As  yet  he 
had  not  made  himself  unbearable ;  but  Alice's  fine  in 
tuition  led  her  to  the  conclusion  that  she  must  guard 
against  him  from  the  outset. 

Adrienne's  simple  heart  could  not  grasp  the  ro 
mantic  criterion  with  which  Alice  was  wont  to  measure 
action.  Her  mind  was  single,  impulsive,  narrow  and 


t8o          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

direct  in  all  its  movements.  She  loved,  hated,  desired, 
caressed,  repulsed,  not  for  any  assignable  reason  more 
solid  or  more  luminous  than  "because."  She  adored 
Rene  and  wanted  him  near  her.  He  was  a  hero  in  her 
imagination,  no  matter  what  he  did.  Little  difference 
was  it  to  her  whether  he  hauled  logs  for  the  English 
or  smoked  his  pipe  in  idleness  by  the  winter  fire — what 
could  it  matter  which  flag  he  served  under,  so  that  he 
was  true  to  her?  Or  whom  he  served  if  she  could  al 
ways  have  him  coming  to  see  her  and  calling  her  his 
little  pet?  He  might  crush  an  Irish  Corporal's  head 
every  day,  if  he  would  but  stroke  her  hair  and  say: 
"My  sweet  little  one." 

"Why  couldn't  he  be  quiet  and  do  as  your  man, 
Lieutenant  Beverley,  did?"  she  cried  in  a  sudden 
change  of  mood,  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 
"Lieutenant  Beverley  surrendered  and  took  the  con 
sequences.  He  didn't  kill  somebody  and  run  off  to 
be  hunted  like  a  bear.  No  wonder  you're  happy,  Alice ; 
I'd  be  happy,  too,  if  Rene  were  here  and  came  to  spend 
half  of  every  day  with  me.  I " 

"Why,  what  a  silly  girl  you  are !"  Alice  exclaimed, 
her  face  reddening  prettily.  "How  foolishly  you 
prattle!  I'm  sure  I  don't  trouble  myself  about  Lieu 
tenant  Beverley — what  put  such  absurd  nonsense  into 
your  head,  Adrienne  ?" 

"Because,  that's  what,  and  you  know  it's  so,  too. 
You  love  him  just  as  much  as  I  love  Rene,  and  that's 
just  all  the  love  in  the  world,  and  you  needn't  deny  it, 
Alice  Roussillonl" 


M.  Roussillon  Entertains        181 

Alice  laughed  and  hugged  the  wee,  brown-faced 
mite  of  a  girl  until  she  almost  smothered  her. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  Adrienne  left  Roussillon 
place  to  go  home.  The  wind  cut  icily  across  the  com 
mons  and  moaned  as  it  whirled  around  the  cabins  and 
cattle-sheds.  She  ran  briskly,  muffled  in  a  wrap,  partly 
through  fear  and  partly  to  keep  warm,  and  had  gone 
two-thirds  of  her  way  when  she  was  brought  to  an 
abrupt  stop  by  the  arms  of  a  man.  She  screamed 
sharply,  and  Father  Beret,  who  was  coming  out  of  a 
cabin  not  far  away,  heard  and  knew  the  voice. 

"Ho-ho,  my  little  lady!"  cried  Adrienne's  captor  in 
a  breezy,  jocund  tone,  "you  wouldn't  run  over  a  fel 
low,  would  you?"  The  words  were  French,  but  the 
voice  was  that  of  Captain  Farnsworth,  who  laughed 
while  he  spoke.  "You  jump  like  a  rabbit,  my  darling! 
Why,  what  a  lively  little  chick  of  a  girl  it  is!" 

Adrienne  screamed  and  struggled  recklessly. 

"Now  don't  rouse  up  the  town,"  coaxed  the  Captain. 
He  was  just  drunk  enough  to  be  quite  a  fool,  yet  suf 
ficiently  sober  to  imagine  himself  the  most  proper  per 
son  in  the  world.  "I  don't  mean  you  any  harm,  Made 
moiselle  ;  I'll  just  see  you  safe  home,  you  know ; 
'scort  you  to  your  residence;  come  on,  now — that's  a 
good  girl." 

,  Father  Beret  hurried  to  the  spot,  and  when  in  the 
deepening  gloom  he  saw  Adrienne  flinging  heself  vio 
lently  this  way  and  that,  helplessly  trying  to  escape 
from  the  clasp  of  a  man,  he  did  to  perfection  what 
a  priest  is  supposed  to  be  the  least  fitted  to  do. 
Indeed,  considering  his  age  and  leaving  his  vocation 


182         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

out  of  the  reckoning,  his  performance  was  amazing. 
It  is  not  certain  that  the  blow  dealt  upon  Governor 
Hamilton's  jaw  by  M.  Roussillon  was  a  stiffer  one 
than  that  sent  straight  from  the  priest's  shoulder  right 
into  the  short  ribs  of  Captain  Farnsworth,  who  there 
upon  released  a  mighty  grunt  and  doubled  himself  up. 

Adrienne  recognized  her  assailant  at  the  first  and 
used  his  name  freely  during  the  struggle.  When 
Father  Beret  appeared  she  cried  out  to  him — 

"Oh,  Father — Father  Beret!  help  me!  help  me!" 

When  Farnsworth  recovered  from  the  breath-ex 
pelling  shock  of  the  jab  in  his  side  and  got  himself 
once  more  in  a  vertical  position,  both  girl  and  priest 
were  gone.  He  looked  this  way  and  that,  rapidly  be 
coming  sober,  and  beginning  to  wonder  how  the  thing 
could  have  happened  so  easily.  His  ribs  felt  as  if  they 
had  been  hit  with  a  heavy  hammer. 

"By  Jove!"  he  muttered  all  to  himself,  "the  old 
prayer-singing  heathen !  By  Jove !"  And  with  this 
very  brilliant  and  relevant  observation  he  rubbed  his 
sore  side  and  went  his  way  to  the  fort. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    SWORD   AND    A    HORSE    PISTOL 

We  hear  much  about  the  "days  that  tried  men's 
souls";  but  what  about  the  souls  of  women  in  those 
same  days  ?  Sitting  in  the  liberal  geniality  of  the  nine 
teenth  century's  sunset  glow,  we  insist  upon  having  our 
grumble  at  the  times  and  the  manners  of  our  genera 
tion;  but  if  we  had  to  exchange  places,  periods  and 
experiences  with  the  people  who  lived  in  America 
through  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
there  would  be  good  ground  for  despairing  ululations. 
And  if  our  men  could  not  bear  it,  if  it  would  try  their 
souls  too  poignantly,  let  us  imagine  the  effect  upon  our 
women.  No,  let  us  not  imagine  it;  but  rather  let  us 
give  full  credit  to  the  heroic  souls  of  the  mothers  and 
the  maidens  who  did  actually  bear  up  in  the  center  of 
that  terrible  struggle  and  unflinchingly  help  win  for 
us  not  only  freedom,  but  the  vast  empire  which  at 
this  moment  is  at  once  the  master  of  the  world  and 
the  model  toward  which  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
are  slowly  but  surely  tending. 

If  Alice  was  an  extraordinary  girl,  she  was  not 
aware  of  it;  nor  had  she  ever  understood  that  her 
life  was  being  shaped  by  extraordinary  conditions. 
Of  course  it  could  not  but  be  plain  to  her  that  she 
knew  more  and  felt  more  than  the  girls  of  her  narrow 
acquaintance ;  that  her  accomplishments  were  greater ; 
that  she  nursed  splendid  dreams  of  which  they  could 

183 


184         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

have  no  proper  comprehension,  but  until  now  she  had 
never  even  dimly  realized  that  she  was  probably 
capable  of  being  something  more  than  a  mere  Creole 
lass,  the  foster  daughter  of  Gaspard  Roussillon,  trader 
in  pelts  and  furs.  Even  her  most  romantic  visions  had 
never  taken  the  form  of  personal  desire,  or  ambition 
in  its  most  nebulous  stage;  they  had  simply  pleased 
her  fresh  and  natural  fancy  and  served  to  gild  the 
hardness  and  crudeness  of  her  life, — that  was  all. 

Her  experiences  had  been  almost  too  terrible  for 
belief,  viewed  at  our  distance  from  them;  she  had 
passed  through  scenes  of  incredible  horror  and  suffer 
ing,  but  her  nature  had  not  been  chilled,  stunted  or 
hardened.  In  body  and  in  temper  her  development 
had  been  sound  and  beautiful.  It  was  even  thus  that 
our  great-grandmothers  triumphed  over  adversity, 
hardship,  indescribable  danger.  We  cannot  say  that 
the  strong,  lithe,  happy-hearted  Alice  of  old  Vincennes 
was  the  only  one  of  her  kind.  Few  of  us  who  have 
inherited  the  faded  portraits  of  our  revolutionary  for 
bears  can  doubt  that  beauty,  wit  and  great  lovableness 
flourished  in  the  cabins  of  pioneers  all  the  way  from  the 
Edisto  to  the  Licking,  from  the  Connecticut  to  the 
Wabash. 

Beverley's  advent  could  not  fail  to  mean  a  great 
deal  in  the  life  of  a  girl  like  Alice;  a  new  era,  as  it 
were,  would  naturally  begin  for  her  the  moment  that 
his  personal  influence  touched  her  imagination;  but 
it  is  well  not  to  measure  her  too  strictly  by  the  stand 
ard  of  our  present  taste  and  the  specialized  forms  of 
our  social  and  moral  code.  She  was  a  true  child  of  the 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     185 

wilderness,  a  girl  who  grew,  as  the  wild  prairie  rose 
grew,  not  on  account  of  innumerable  exigencies,  acci-> 
dents  and  hardships,  but  in  spite  of  them.  She  had 
blushed  unseen,  and  had  wasted  divine  sweets  upon  a 
more  than  desert  air.  But  when  Beverley  came  near 
her,  at  first  carelessly  droning  his  masculine  monot 
onies,  as  the  wandering  bee  to  the  lonely  and  lovely 
rose,  and  presently  striking  her  soul  as  with  the  wings 
of  Love,  there  fell  a  change  into  her  heart  of  hearts,  and 
lo !  her  haunting  and  elusive  dreams  began  to  condense 
and  take  on  forms  that  startled  her  with  their  won 
derful  splendor  and  beauty.  These  she  saw  all  the 
time,  sleeping  or  waking;  they  made  bright  summer 
of  the  frozen  stream  and  snapping  gale,  the  snow 
drifts  and  the  sleet.  In  her  brave  young  heart,  swelled 
the  ineffable  song — the  music  never  yet  caught  by 
syrinx  or  flute  or  violin,  the  words  no  tongue  can 
speak. 

Ah,  here  may  be  the  secret  of  that  vigorous,  brave, 
sweet  life  of  our  pioneer  maids,  wives,  and  mothers.  It 
was  love  that  gave  those  tender  hearts  the  iron  strength 
and  heroic  persistence  at  which  the  world  must  for 
ever  wonder.  And  do  we  appreciate  those  women  ?  Let 
the  Old  World  boast  its  crowned  kings,  its  mailed 
knights,  its  ladies  of  the  court  and  castle ;  but  we  of  the 
New  World,  we  of  the  powerful  West,  let  us  brim  OUF 
cups  with  the  wine  of  undying  devotion,  and  drink  to 
the  memory  of  the  Women  of  the  Revolution, — to  the 
humble  but  good  and  marvelously  brave  and  faithful 
women  like  those  of  old  Vincennes. 

But  if  Alice  was  being  radically  influenced  by  Bev- 


186         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

erley,  he  in  turn  found  a  new  light  suffusing  his  nature, 
and  he  was  not  unaware  that  it  came  out  of  her  eyes, 
her  face,  her  smiles,  her  voice,  her  soul.  It  was  the 
old,  well-known,  inexplicable,  mutual  magnetism, 
which  from  the  first  has  been  the  same  on  the  highest 
mountain-top  and  in  the  lowest  valley.  The  queen  and 
the  milkmaid,  the  king  and  the  hind  may  come  to 
gether  only  to  find  the  king  walking  off  with  the  lowly 
beauty  and  her  fragrant  pail,  while  away  stalks  the 
lusty  rustic,  to  be  lord  and  master  of  the  queen.  Love 
is  love,  and  it  thrives  in  all  climes,  under  all  condi 
tions. 

There  is  an  inevitable  and  curious  protest  that  comes 
up  unbidden  between  lovers;  it  takes  many  forms  in 
accordance  with  particular  circumstances.  It  is  the  de 
mand  for  equality  and  perfection.  Love  itself  is  with 
out  degrees — it  is  perfect — but  when  shall  it  see  the 
perfect  object?  It  does  see  it,  and  it  does  not  see  it, 
in  every  beloved  being.  Beverley  found  his  mind 
turning,  as  on  a  pivot,  round  and  round  upon  the 
thought  that  Alice  might  be  impossible  to  him.  The 
mystery  of  her  life  seemed  to  force  her  below  the  line 
of  his  aristocratic  vision,  so  that  he  could  not  fairly 
consider  her,  and  yet  with  all  his  heart  he  loved  her. 
Alice,  on  the  other  hand,  had  her  bookish  ideal  to 
reckon  with,  despite  the  fact  that  she  daily  dashed  it 
contemptuously  down.  She  was  different  from  Adri- 
enne  Bourcier,  who  bewailed  the  absence  of  her  un 
tamable  lover;  she  wished  that  Beverley  had  not,  as 
she  somehow  viewed  it,  weakly  surrendered  to  Ham 
ilton.  His  apparently  complacent  acceptance  of  idle 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     187 

captivity  did  not  comport  with  her  dream  of  knight 
hood  and  heroism.  She  had  been  all  the  time  half 
expecting  him  to  do  something  that  would  stamp  him 
a  hero. 

Counter  protests  of  this  sort  are  never  sufficiently 
vigorous  to  take  a  fall  out  of  Love ;  they  merely  serve 
to  worry  his  temper  by  lightly  hindering  his  feet.  And 
it  is  surprising  how  Love  does  delight  himself  with 
being  entangled. 

Both  Beverley  and  Alice  day  by  day  felt  the  cord 
tightening  which  drew  their  hearts  together— each  ac 
knowledged  it  secretly,  but  strove  not  to  evince  it 
openly.  Meantime  both  were  as  happy  and  as  rest 
lessly  dissatisfied  as  love  and  uncertainty  could  make 
them, 

Amid  the  activities  in  which  Hamilton  was  en 
gaged- — his  dealings  with  the  Indians  and  the  work 
of  reconstructing  the  fort — he  found  time  to  worry 
his  temper  about  the  purloined  flag.  Like  every  other 
man  in  the  world,  he  was  superstitious,  and  it  had  come 
into  his  head  that  to  insure  himself  and  his  plans 
against  disaster,  he  must  have  the  banner  of  his  cap 
tives  as  a  badge  of  his  victory.  It  was  a  small  mat 
ter;  but  it  magnified  itself  as  he  dwelt  upon  it.  He 
suspected  that  Alice  had  deceived  him.  He  sharply 
questioned  Father  Beret,  only  to  be  half  convinced 
that  the  good  priest  told  the  truth  when  he  said  that 
he  knew  nothing  whatever  on  the  subject  beyond  the 
fact  that  the  banner  had  mysteriously  disappeared 
from  under  his  floor. 

Captain  Farnsworth  scarcely  sympathized  with  his 


i88        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

chief  about  the  flag,  but  he  was  nothing  if  not  anxious 
to  gain  Hamilton's  highest  confidence.  His  military 
zeal  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  never  let  pass  even  the 
slightest  opportunity  to  show  it.  Hence  his  persistent 
search  for  a  clue  to  the  missing  banner.  He  was  no 
respecter  of  persons.  He  frankly  suspected  both  Alice 
and  Father  Beret  of  lying.  He  would  himself  have 
lied  under  the  existing  circumstances,  and  he  consid 
ered  himself  as  truthful  and  trustworthy  as  priest  or 
maiden. 

"I'll  get  that  flag  for  you,"  he  said  to  Hamilton,  "if 
I  have  to  put  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  this  town 
on  the  rack.  It  lies,  I  think,  between  Miss  Roussillon 
and  the  priest,  although  both  insistently  deny  it.  I've 
thought  it  over  in  every  way,  and  I  can't  see  how  they 
can  both  be  ignorant  of  where  it  is,  or  at  least  who 
got  it." 

Hamilton,  since  being  treated  to  that  wonderful  blow 
on  the  jaw,  was  apt  to  fall  into  a  spasm  of  anger  when 
ever  the  name  Roussillon  was  spoken  in  his  hearing. 
Involuntarily  he  would  put  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  and 
grimace  reminiscently. 

"If  it's  that  girl,  make  her  tell,"  he  savagely  com 
manded.  "Let's  have  no  trifling  about  it.  If  it's  the 
priest,  then  make  him  tell,  or  tie  him  up  by  the  thumbs. 
Get  that  flag,  or  show  some  good  reason  for  your 
failure.  I'm  not  going  to  be  baffled." 

The  Captain's  adventure  with  Father  Beret  came  just 
in  time  to  make  it  count  against  that  courageous  and 
bellicose  missionary  in  more  ways  than  one.  Farns- 
worth  did  not  tell  Hamilton  or  any  other  person  about 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     189 

what  the  priest  had  done  to  him,  but  nursed  his  sore 
ribs  and  his  wrath,  waiting  patiently  for  the  revenge 
that  he  meant  soon  to  take. 

Alice  heard  from  Adrienne  the  story  of  Farnsworth's 
conduct  and  his  humiliating  discomfiture  at  the  hands 
of  Father  Beret.  She  was  both  indignant  and  de 
lighted,  sympathizing  with  Adrienne  and  glorying  in 
the  priest's  vigorous  pugilistic  achievement. 

"Well,"  she  remarked,  with  one  of  her  infectious 
trills  of  laughter,  "so  far  the  French  have  the  best  of 
it,  anyway !  Papa  Roussillon  knocked  the  Governor's 
cheek  nearly  off,  then  Rene  cracked  the  Irish  Corporal's 
head,  and  now  Father  Beret  has  taught  Captain  Farns- 
worth  a  lesson  in  fisticuffs  that  he'll  not  soon  forget ! 
If  the  good  work  can  only  go  on  a  little  longer  we  shall 
see  every  English  soldier  in  Vincennes  wearing  the 
mark  of  a  Frenchman's  blow."  Then  her  mood  sud 
denly  changed  from  smiling  lightness  to  almost  fierce 
gravity,  and  she  added: 

"Adrienne  Bourcier,  if  Captain  Farnsworth  ever 
offers  to  treat  me  as  he  did  you,  mark  my  words,  I'll 
kill  him — kill  him,  indeed  I  will!  You  ought  to  see 
me!" 

"But  he  won't  dare  touch  you,"  said  Adrienne,  look 
ing  at  her  friend  with  round,  admiring  eyes.  "He 
knows  very  well  that  you  are  not  little  and  timid  like 
me.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you." 

"I  wish  he  would  try  it.  How  I  would  love  to  shoot 
him  into  pieces,  the  hateful  wretch !  I  wish  he  would." 

The  French  inhabitants  all,  or  nearly  all,  felt  as  Alice 
did;  but  at  present  they  were  helpless  and  dared  not 


igo        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

say  or  do  anything  against  the  English.  Nor  was  this 
feeling  confined  to  the  Creoles  of  Vincennes;  it  had 
spread  to  most  of  the  points  where  trading  posts  ex 
isted.  Hamilton  found  this  out  too  late  to  mend  some 
of  his  mistakes;  but  he  set  himself  on  the  alert  and 
organized  scouting  bodies  of  Indians  under  white  of 
ficers  to  keep  him  informed  as  to  the  American 
movements  in  Kentucky  and  along  the  Ohio.  One  of 
these  bands  brought  in  as  captive  Colonef  Francis 
Vigo,  of  St.  Louis,  a  Spaniard  by  birth,  an  American 
by  adoption,  a  patriot  to  the  core,  who  had  large  in 
fluence  over  both  Indians  and  Creoles  in  the  Illinois 
country. 

Colonel  Vigo  was  not  long  held  a  prisoner.  Ham 
ilton  dared  not  exasperate  the  Creoles  beyond  their  en 
durance,  for  he  knew  that  the  savages  would  closely 
sympathize  with  their  friends  of  long  standing,  and 
this  might  lead  to  revolt  and  coalition  against  him, — 
a  very  dangerous  possibility.  Indeed,  at  least  one  of 
the  great  Indian  chieftains  had  already  frankly  in 
formed  him  that  he  and  his  tribe  were  loyal  to  the 
Americans.  Here  was  a  dilemma  requiring  consum 
mate  diplomacy.  Hamilton  saw  it,  but  he  was  not 
of  a  diplomatic  temper  or  character.  With  the  In 
dians  he  used  a  demoralizing  system  of  bribery,  while 
toward  the  whites  he  was  too  often  gruff,  imperious, 
repellant.  Helm  understood  the  whole  situation  and 
was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  it.  His  personal  rela 
tions  with  Hamilton  were  easy  and  familiar,  so  that 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  give  advice  upon  all  occasions. 
Here  his  jovial  disposition  helped  him. 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     191 

"You'd  better  let  Vigo  return  to  St.  Louis,"  he  said. 
They  had  a  bowl  of  something  hot  steaming  between 
them.  "I  know  him.  He's  harmless  if  you  don't  rub 
him  too  hard  the  wrong  way.  He'll  go  back,  if  you 
treat  him  well,  and  tell  Clark  how  strong  you  are  here 
and  how  foolish  it  would  be  to  think  of  attacking  you. 
Clark  has  but  a  handful  of  men,  poorly  supplied  and 
tired  with  long,  hard  marches.  If  you'll  think  a  mo 
ment  you  cannot  fail  to  understand  that  you'd  better  be 
friends  with  this  man  Vigo.  He  and  Father  Gibault 
and  this  old  priest  here,  Beret,  carry  these  Frenchmen 
in  their  pockets.  I'm  not  on  your  side,  understand,  I'm 
an  American,  and  I'd  blow  the  whole  of  you  to  king 
dom  come  in  a  minute,  if  I  could;  but  common  sense 
is  common  sense  all  the  same.  There's  no  good  to  you 
and  no  harm  to  Clark  in  mistreating,  or  even  holding 
this  prisoner.  What  harm  can  he  do  you  by  going  back 
to  Clark  and  telling  him  the  whole  truth?  Clark  knew 
everything  long  before  Vigo  reached  here.  Old  Jazon, 
my  best  scout,  left  here  the  day  you  took  possession, 
and  you  may  bet  he  got  to  Kaskaskia  in  short  order. 
He  never  fails.  But  he'll  tell  Clark  to  stay  where  he  is, 
and  Vigo  can  do  no  more." 

What  effect  Helm's  bold  and  apparently  artless  talk 
had  upon  Hamilton's  mind  is  not  recorded;  but  the 
meager  historical  facts  at  command  show  that  Vigo 
was  released  and  permitted  to  return  under  promise 
that  he  would  give  no  information  to  the  enemy  on  his 
way  to  Kaskaskia. 

Doubtless  this  bit  of  careless  diplomacy  on  the  Gov 
ernor's  part  did  have  a  somewhat  soothing  effect  upon 


IQ2          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

a  large  class  of  Frenchmen  at  Vincennes ;  but  Farns- 
worth  quickly  neutralized  it  to  a  serious  extent  by  a 
foolish  act  while  slightly  under  the  influence  of  liquor. 

He  met  Father  Beret  near  Roussillon  place,  and 
feeling  his  ribs  squirm  at  sight  of  the  priest,  he  accosted 
him  insolently,  demanding  information  as  to  the  where 
abouts  of  the  missing  flag. 

A  priest  may  be  good  and  true — Father  Beret  cer 
tainly  was — and  yet  have  the  strongest  characteristics 
of  a  worldly  man.  This  thing  of  being  bullied  day 
after  day,  as  had  recently  been  the  rule,  generated 
nothing  to  aid  in  removing  a  refractory  desire  from 
the  priest's  heart — the  worldly  desire  to  repeat  with 
great  increment  of  force  the  punch  against  Farns- 
worth's  lower  ribs. 

"I  order  you,  sir,  to  produce  that  rebel  flag,"  &aid 
Farnsworth.  "You  will  obey  forthwith  or  take  the 
consequences.  I  am  no  longer  in  the  humor  to  be 
trifled  with.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"I  might  be  forced  to  obey  you,  if  I  could,"  said  the 
priest,  drawing  his  robe  about  him;  "but,  as  I  have 
often  told  you,  my  son,  I  do  not  know  where  the  flag  is 
or  who  took  it.  I  do  not  even  suspect  any  person  of 
taking  it.  All  that  I  know  about  it  is  the  simple  fact 
that  it  is  gone." 

Father  Beret's  manner  and  voice  were  very  mild,  but 
there  must  have  been  a  hint  of  sturdy  defiance  some 
where  in  them.  At  all  events  Farnsworth  was  exasper 
ated  and  fell  into  a  white  rage.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
liquor  he  had  been  drinking  that  made  him  suddenly 
desperate. 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     193 

"You  canting  old  fool!"  he  cried,  "don't  lie  to  me 
any  longer ;  I  won't  have  it.  Don't  stand  there  grinning 
at  me.  Get  that  flag,  or  I'll  make  you." 

"What  is  impossible,  my  son,  is  possible  to  God 
alone.  Apud  homines  hoc  impossibile  est,  apud  Deum 
autem  omnia  possibilia  sunt." 

"None  of  your  Jesuit  Latin  or  logic  to  me — I  am  not 
here  to  argue,  but  to  command.  Get  that  flag.  Be  in 
a  hurry  about  it,  sir." 

He  whipped  out  his  sword,  and  in  his  half  drunken 
eyes  there  gathered  the  dull  film  of  murderous  passion. 

"Put  up  your  weapon,  Captain ;  you  will  not  attack 
an  unarmed  priest.  You  are  a  soldier,  and  v/ill  not 
dare  strike  an  old,  defenceless  man." 

"But  I  will  strike  a  black-robed  and  black-hearted 
French  rebel.  Get  that  flag,  you  grinning  fool !" 

The  two  men  stood  facing  each  other.  Father  Beret's 
eyes  did  not  stir  from  their  direct,  fearless  gaze.  What 
Farnsworth  had  called  a  grin  was  a  peculiar  smile,  not 
of  merriment,  a  grayish  flicker  and  a  slight  backward 
wrinkling  of  the  cheeks.  The  old  man's  arms  were 
loosely  crossed  upon  his  sturdy  breast. 

"Strike  if  you  must,"  he  said  very  gently,  very  firm 
ly.  "I  never  yet  have  seen  the  man  that  could  make 
me  afraid."  His  speech  was  slightly  sing-song  in  tone, 
as  it  would  have  been  during  a  prayer  or  a  blessing. 

"Get  the  flag  then!"  raged  Farnsworth,  in  whose 
veins  the  heat  of  liquor  was  aided  by  an  unreasoning 
choler. 

"I  cannot,"  said  Father  Beret. 

"Then  take  the  consequences  1" 


194          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Farnsworth  lifted  his  sword,  not  to  thrust,  but  to 
strike  with  its  flat  side,  and  down  it  flashed  with  a 
noisy  whack.  Father  Beret  flung  out  an  arm  and 
deftly  turned  the  blow  aside.  It  was  done  so  easily 
that  Farnsworth  sprang  back  glaring  and  surprised. 

"You  old  fool !"  he  cried,  leveling  his  weapon  for  a 
direct  lunge.  "You  devilish  hypocrite !" 

It  was  then  that  Father  Beret  turned  deadly  pale 
and  swiftly  crossed  himself.  His  face  looked  as  if  he 
saw  something  startling  just  beyond  his  adversary. 
Possibly  this  sudden  change  of  expression  caused 
Farnsworth  to  hesitate  for  a  mere  point  of  time.  Then 
there  was  the  swish  of  a  woman's  skirts ;  a  light  step 
pattered  on  the  frozen  ground,  and  Alice  sprang  be 
tween  the  men,  facing  Farnsworth.  As  she  did  this 
something  small  and  yellow, — the  locket  at  her  throat, 
— fell  and  rolled  under  her  feet.  Nobody  saw  it. 

In  her  hand  she  held  an  immense  horse  pistol,  which 
she  leveled  in  the  Captain's  face,  its  flaring,  bugle- 
shaped  muzzle  gaping  not  a  yard  from  his  nose.  The 
heavy  tube  was  as  steady  as  if  in  a  vise. 

"Drop  that  sword !" 

That  was  all  she  said ;  but  her  finger  was  pressing 
the  trigger,  and  the  flint  in  the  backward  slanting  ham 
mer  was  ready  to  click  against  the  steel.  The  leaden 
slugs  were  on  the  point  of  leaping  forth. 

"Drop  that  sword!" 

The  repetition  seemed  to  close  the  opportunity  for 
delay. 

Farnsworth  was  on  his  guard  in  a  twinkling.  He 
Set  his  jaw  and  uttered  an  ugly  oath;  then  quick  as 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     195 

lightning  he  struck  sidewise  at  the  pistol  with  his  blade. 
It  was  a  move  which  might  have  taken  a  less  alert  per 
son  than  Alice  unawares ;  but  her  training  in  sword- 
play  was  ready  in  her  wrist  and  hand.  An  involun 
tary  turn,  the  slightest  imaginable,  set  the  heavy  barrel 
of  her  weapon  strongly  against  the  blow,  partly  stop 
ping  it,  and  then  the  gaping  muzzle  spat  its  load  of  balls 
and  slugs  with  a  bellow  that  awoke  the  drowsy  old 
village. 

Farnsworth  staggered  backward,  letting  fall  his 
sword.  There  was  a  rent  in  the  clothing  of  his  left 
shoulder.  He  reeled ;  the  blood  spun  out ;  but  he  did 
not  fall,  although  he  grew  white. 

Alice  stood  gazing  at  him  with  a  look  on  her  face 
he  would  never  forget.  It  was  a  look  that  changed 
by  wonderful  swift  gradations  from  terrible  hate  to 
something  like  sweet  pity.  The  instant  she  saw  him 
hurt  and  bleeding,  his  countenance  relaxing  and  pale, 
her  heart  failed  her.  She  took  a  step  toward  him, 
her  hand  opened,  and  with  a  thud  the  heavy  old  pistol 
fell  upon  the  ground  beside  her. 

Father  Beret  sprang  nimbly  to  sustain  Farnsworth, 
snatching  up  the  pistol  as  he  passed  around  Alice. 

"You  are  hurt,  my  son,"  he  gently  said,  "let  me  help 
you."  He  passed  his  arm  firmly  under  that  of  Farns 
worth,  seeing  that  the  Captain  was  unsteady  on  his 
feet. 

''Lean  upon  me.  Come  with  me,  Alice,  my  child, 
and  I  will  take  him  into  the  house." 

Alice  picked  up  the  Captain's  sword  and  led  the  way. 

It  was  all  done  so  quickly  that  Farnsworth,  in  his 


IQ6         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

half  dazed  condition,  scarcely  realized  what  was  going 
on  until  he  found  himself  on  a  couch  in  the  Roussillon 
home,  his  wound  (a  jagged  furrow  plowed  out 
by  slugs  that  the  sword's  blade  had  first  intercepted) 
neatly  dressed  and  bandaged,  while  Alice  and  the  priest 
hovered  over  him  busy  with  their  careful  ministrations. 

Hamilton  and  Helm  were,  as  usual,  playing  cards  at 
the  former's  quarters  when  a  guard  announced  that 
Mademoiselle  Roussillon  wished  an  audience  with  the 
Governor. 

"Bring  the  girl  in,"  said  Hamilton,  throwing  down 
his  cards  and  scowling  darkly. 

"Now  you'd  better  be  wise  as  a  serpent  and  gentle 
as  a  dove,"  remarked  Helm.  "There  is  something  up, 
and  that  gun-shot  we  heard  awhile  ago  may  have  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  it.  At  any  rate,  you'll  find  kind 
ness  your  best  card  to  play  with  Alice  Roussillon  just 
at  the  present  stage  of  the  game." 

Of  course  they  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened 
to  Farnsworth;  but  they  had  been  discussing  the 
strained  relations  between  the  garrison  and  the  French 
inhabitants  when  the  roar  of  Alice's  big-mouthed  pis 
tol  startled  them.  Helm  was  slyly  beating  about  to  try 
to  make  Hamilton  lose  sight  of  the  danger  from 
Clark's  direction.  To  do  this  he  artfully  magnified 
the  insidious  work  that  might  be  done  by  the  French 
and  their  Indian  friends  should  they  be  driven  to  des 
peration  by  oppressive  or  exasperating  action  on  the 
part  of  the  English. 

Hamilton  felt  the  dangerous  uncertainty  upon  which 
the  situation  rested;  but,  like  many  another  vigor- 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     197 

ously  self-reliant  man,  he  could  not  subordinate  his 
passions  to  the  dictates  of  policy.  When  Alice  was 
conducted  into  his  presence  he  instantly  swelled  with 
anger.  It  was  her  father  who  had  struck  him  and 
escaped,  it  was  she  who  had  carried  off  the  rebel  flag 
at  the  moment  of  victory. 

"Well,  Miss,  to  what  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this 
visit?"  he  demanded  with  a  supercilious  air,  bending 
a  card  between  his  thumb  and  finger  on  the  rude  table. 

She  stood  before  him  tall  and  straight,  well  bundled 
in  furs.  She  was  not  pale ;  her  blood  was  too  rich  and 
brilliant  for  that;  but  despite  a  half-smile  and  the  in 
extinguishable  dimples,  there  was  a  touch  of  some 
thing  appealingly  pathetic  in  the  lines  of  her  mouth. 
She  did  not  waver  or  hesitate,  however,  but  spoke 
promptly  and  distinctly. 

"I  have  come,  Monsieur,  to  tell  you  that  I  have  hurt 
Captain  Farnsworth.  He  was  about  to  kill  Father 
Beret,  and  I  shot  him.  He  is  in  our  house  and  well 
cared  for.  I  don't  think  his  wound  is  bad.  And — " 
here  she  hesitated  at  last  and  let  her  gaze  fall, — "so  here 
I  am."  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  again  and  made  an 
inimitable  French  gesture  with  her  shoulders  and 
arms.  "You  will  do  as  you  please,  Monsieur,  I  am  at 
your  mercy." 

Hamilton  was  astounded.  Helm  sat  staring  phleg- 
matically.  Meantime  Beverley  entered  the  room  and 
stopped  hat  in  hand  behind  Alice.  He  was  flushed 
and  evidently  excited;  in  fact,  he  had  heard  of  the 
trouble  with  Farnsworth,  and  seeing  Alice  enter  the 
door  of  Hamilton's  quarters  he  followed  her  in,  his 


IQ8         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

heart  stirred  by  no  slight  emotion.  He  met  the  Gov 
ernor's  glare  and  parried  it  with  one  of  equal  haughti 
ness.  The  veins  on  his  forehead  swelled  and  turned 
dark.  He  was  in  a  mood  to  do  whatever  desperate  act 
should  suggest  itself. 

When  Hamilton  fairly  comprehended  the  message  so 
graphically  presented  by  Alice,  he  rose  from  his  seat 
by  the  fire. 

"What's  this  you  tell  me?"  he  blurted.  "You  say 
you've  shot  Captain  Farnsworth?" 

"Out,  Monsieur." 

He  stared  a  moment,  then  his  features  beamed  with 
hate. 

"And  I'll  have  you  shot  for  it,  Miss,  as  sure  as  you 
stand  there  in  your  silly  impudence  ogling  me  so 
brazenly !" 

He  leaned  toward  her  as  he  spoke  and  sent  with  the 
words  a  shock  of  coarse,  passionate  energy  from  which 
she  recoiled  as  if  expecting  a  blow  to  follow  it. 

An  irresistible  impulse  swept  Beverley  to  Alice's 
side,  and  his  attitude  was  that  of  a  protector.  Helm 
sprang  up. 

A  Lieutenant  came  in  and  respectfully,  but  with  evi- 
'dent  over-haste,  reported  that  Captain  Farnsworth 
had  been  shot  and  was  at  Roussillon  place  in  care  of 
the  surgeon. 

"Take  this  girl  into  custody.  Confine  her  and  put 
a  strong  guard  over  her." 

In  giving  the  order  Hamilton  jerked  his  thumb  con 
temptuously  toward  Alice,  and  at  the  same  time  gave 
Beverley  a  look  of  supreme  defiance  and  hatred.  When 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     199 

Helm  began  to  speak  he  turned  fiercely  upon  him  and 
stopped  him  with : 

"None  of  your  advice,  sir.  I  have  had  all  I  want  of 
it.  Keep  your  place  or  I'll  make  you." 

Then  to  Beverley : 

"Retire,  sir.  When  I  wish  to  see  you  I'll  send  for 
you.  At  present  you  are  not  needed  here." 

The  English  Lieutenant  saluted  his  commander, 
bowed  respectfully  to  Alice  and  said: 

"Come  with  me,  Miss,  please." 

Helm  and  Beverley  exchanged  a  look  of  helpless  and 
enquiring  rage.  It  was  as  if  they  had  said:  "What 
can  we  do?  Must  we  bear  it?"  Certainly  they  could 
do  nothing.  Any  interference  on  their  part  would  be 
sure  to  increase  Alice's  danger,  and  at  the  same  time 
add  to  the  weight  of  their  own  humiliation. 

Alice  silently  followed  the  officer  out  of  the  room. 
She  did  not  even  glance  toward  Beverley,  who  moved 
as  if  to  interfere  and  was  promptly  motioned  back  by 
the  guard.  His  better  judgement  returning  held  him 
from  a  rash  and  futile  act,  until  Hamilton  spoke  again, 
saying  loudly  as  Alice  passed  through  the  door : 

"I'll  see  who's  master  of  this  town  if  I  have  to  shoot 
every  French  hoyden  in  it !" 

"Women  and  children  may  well  fear  you,  Colonel 
Hamilton,"  said  Beverley.  "That  young  lady  is  your 
superior." 

"You  say  that  to  me,  sir!" 

"It  is  the  best  I  could  possibly  say  of  you." 

"I  will  send  you  along  with  the  wench  if  you  do  not 


20O          Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

guard  your  language.  A  prisoner  on  parole  has  no 
license  to  be  a  blackguard." 

"I  return  you  my  parole,  sir,  I  shall  no  longer  regard 
it  as  binding,"  said  Beverley,  by  a  great  effort,  holding 
back  a  blow;  "I  will  not  keep  faith  with  a  scoundrel 
who  does  not  know  how  to  be  decent  in  the  presence 
of  a  young  girl.  You  had  better  have  me  arrested 
and  confined.  I  will  escape  at  the  first  opportunity  and 
bring  a  force  here  to  reckon  with  you  for  your  vil 
lainy.  And  if  you  dare  hurt  Alice  Roussillon  I  will 
have  you  hanged  like  a  dog !" 

Hamilton  looked  at  him  scornfully,  smiling  as  one 
who  feels  safe  in  his  authority  and  means  to  have  his 
own  way  with  his  victim.  Naturally  he  regarded  Bev- 
erley's  words  as  the  merest  vaporings  of  a  helpless  and 
exasperated  young  man.  He  saw  very  clearly  that 
love  was  having  a  hand  in  the  affair,  and  he  chuckled 
inwardly,  thinking  what  a  fool  Beverley  was. 

"I  thought  I  ordered  you  to  leave  this  room,"  he 
said  with  an  air  and  tone  of  lofty  superiority,  "and  I 
certainly  mean  to  be  obeyed.  Go,  sir,  and  if  you  at 
tempt  to  escape,  or  in  any  way  break  your  parole,  I'll 
have  you  shot." 

"I  have  already  broken  it.  From  this  moment  I 
shall  not  regard  it.  You  have  heard  my  statement.  I 
shall  not  repeat  it.  Govern  yourself  accordingly." 

With  these  words  Beverley  turned  and  strode  out 
of  the  house,  quite  beside  himself,  his  whole  frame 
quivering. 

Hamilton  laughed  derisively,  then  looked  at  Helm 
and  said: 


A  Sword  and  a  Horse  Pistol     201 

"Helm,  I  like  you ;  I  don't  wish  to  be  unkind  to  you ; 
but  positively  you  must  quit  breaking  in  upon  my 
affairs  with  your  ready-made  advice.  I've  given  you 
and  Lieutenant  Beverley  too  much  latitude,  perhaps. 
If  that  young  fool  don't  look  sharp  he'll  get  himself 
into  a  beastly  lot  of  trouble.  You'd  better  give  him  a 
talk.  He's  in  a  way  to  need  it  just  now." 

"I  think  so  myself,"  said  Helm,  glad  to  get  back 
upon  fair  footing  with  the  irascible  Governor.  "I'll 
wait  until  he  cools  off  somewhat,  and  then  I  can  man 
age  him.  Leave  him  to  me." 

"Well,  come  walk  with  me  to  see  what  has  really 
happened  to  Farnsworth.  He's  probably  not  much 
hurt,  and  deserves  what  he's  got.  That  girl  has  turned 
his  head.  I  think  I  understand  the  whole  affair.  A 
little  love,  a  little  wine,  some  foolishness,  and  the 
wench  shot  him." 

Helm  genially  assented;  but  they  were  delayed  for 
some  time  by  an  officer  who  came  in  to  consult  with 
Hamilton  on  some  pressing  Indian  affairs.  When  they 
reached  Roussillon  place  they  met  Beverley  coming 
out;  but  he  did  not  look  at  them.  He  was  scarcely 
aware  of  them.  A  little  way  outside  the  gate,  on  going 
in,  he  had  picked  up  Alice's  locket  and  broken  chain, 
which  he  mechanically  put  into  his  pocket.  It  was  all 
like  a  dream  to  him,  and  yet  he  had  a  clear  purpose. 
He  was  going  away  from  Vincennes,  or  at  least  he 
would  try,  and  woe  be  to  Hamilton  on  his  coming 
back.  It  was  so  easy  for  an  excited  young  mind  to 
plan  great  things  and  to  expect  success  under  ap~ 
parently  impossible  conditions.  Beverley  gave  Jean 


2O2         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

a  note  for  Alice ;  it  was  this  that  took  him  to  Roussillon 
place;  and  no  sooner  fell  the  night  than  he  shouldered 
a  gun  furnished  him  by  Madame  Godere,  and  guided 
by  the  woodsman's  fine  craft,  stole  away  southward, 
thinking  to  swim  the  icy  Wabash  some  miles  below, 
and  then  strike  across  the  plains  of  Illinois  to  Kas- 
kaskia. 

It  was  a  desperate  undertaking;  but  in  those  days 
desperate  undertakings  were  rather  the  rule  than  the 
exception.  Moreover,  love  was  the  leader  and  Bev- 
erley  the  blind  follower.  Nothing  could  daunt  him  or 
turn  him  back,  until  he  found  an  army  to  lead  against 
Hamilton.  It  seems  but  a  romantic  burst  of  indig 
nation,  as  we  look  back  at  it,  hopelessly  foolish,  with 
no  possible  end  but  death  in  the  wilderness.  Still  there 
was  a  method  in  love's  madness,  and  Beverley,  with 
his  superb  physique,  his  knowledge  of  the  wilderness 
and  his  indomitable  self-reliance,  was  by  no  means 
without  his  fighting  chance  for  success. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MANON   LESCAUT,    AND   A   RAPIER-THRUST 

Beverley's  absence  was  not  noticed  by  Hamilton  un 
til  late  on  the  following  day,  and  even  then  he  scouted 
Helm's  suggestion  that  the  young  man  was  possibly 
carrying  out  his  threat  to  disregard  his  parole. 

"He  would  be  quite  justified  in  doing  it ;  you  know 
that  very  well,"  said  Helm  with  a  laugh,  "and  he's 
just  the  man  to  undertake  what  is  impossible.  Of 
course,  however,  he'll  get  scalped  for  his  trouble,  and 
that  will  cost  you  something,  I'm  happy  to  say." 

"It's  a  matter  of  small  importance,"  Hamilton  re 
plied  ;  "but  I'll  wager  you  the  next  toddy  that  he's  not 
at  the  present  moment  a  half-mile  from  this  spot.  He 
may  be  a  fool,  I  readily  grant  that  he  is,  but  even  a 
fool  is  not  going  to  set  out  alone  in  this  kind  of  weather 
to  go  to  where  your  rebel  friends  are  probably  toasting 
their  shins  by  a  fire  of  green  logs  and  half  starving 
over  yonder  on  the  Mississippi." 

"Joking  aside,  you  are  doubtless  right.  Beverley  is 
hot-headed,  and  if  he  could  he'd  get  even  with  you 
devilish  quick;  but  he  hasn't  left  Vincennes,  I  think. 
Miss  Roussillon  would  keep  him  here  if  the  place  were 
on  fire !" 

Hamilton  laughed  dryly.  He  had  thought  just  what 
Helm  was  saying.  Beverley's  attentions  to  Alice  had 
not  escaped  his  notice. 

"Speaking  of  that  girl,"  he  remarked  after  a  mo* 

803 


204         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ment's  silence,  "what  am  I  to  do  with  her?  There's 
no  place  to  keep  her,  and  Farnsworth  insists  that  she 
wasn't  to  blame."  He  chuckled  again  and  added: 

"It's  true  as  gospel.  He's  in  love  with  her,  too. 
Seems  to  be  glad  she  shot  him.  Says  he's  ashamed  of 
himself  for  ever  suspecting  her  of  anything  but  being  a 
genuine  angel.  Why,  he's  got  as  flabby  as  a  rabbit 
and  mumbles  like  a  fool!" 

"Same  as  you  or  I  at  his  age,"  said  Helm,  taking  a 
chew  of  tobacco.  "She  is  a  pretty  thing.  Beverley 
don't  know  his  foot  from  his  shoulder-blade  when  she's 
anywhere  near  him.  Boys  are  boys.  I'm  a  sort  of  a 
boy  myself." 

"If  she'd  give  up  that  flag  I'd  let  her  go,"  said  Ham 
ilton.  "I  hate  like  the  devil  to  confine  her;  it  looks 
brutal,  and  makes  me  feel  like  a  tyrant." 

"Have  you  ever  happened  to  notice  the  obvious  fact, 
Governor  Hamilton,  that  Alice  Roussillon  and  Father 
Beret  are  not  all  the  French  in  Vincennes?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  that 
either  the  girl  or  the  priest  knows  a  thing  about  where 
that  flag  is.  They  are  both  as  truthful  and  honorable 
as  people  ever  get  to  be.  I  know  them.  Somebody 
else  got  that  flag  from  under  the  priest's  floor.  You 
may  depend  upon  that.  If  Miss  Roussillon  knew 
where  it  is  she'd  say  so,  and  then  dare  you  to  make 
her  tell  where  it's  hidden." 

"Oh,  the  whole  devilish  town  is  rotten  with  treason ; 
that's  very  clear.  There's  not  a  loyal  soul  in  it  outside 
of  my  forces." 


Manon  Lescaut  205 

"Thank  you  for  not  including  me  among  the  loyal 
ists." 

"Humph,  I  spoke  of  these  French  people;  they  pre 
tend  to  be  true ;  but  I  believe  they  are  all  traitors." 

"You  can  manage  them  if  you  try.  A  little  jolly 
kindness  goes  a  long  way  with  'em.  I  had  no  trouble 
while  /  held  the  town." 

Hamilton  bit  his  lip  and  was  silent.  Helm  was  ex- 
asperatingly  good  tempered,  and  his  jocularity  was 
irresistible.  While  he  was  yet  speaking  a  guard  came 
up  followed  by  Jean,  the  hunchback,  and  saluting  said 
to  Hamilton: 

"The  lad  wants  to  see  the  young  lady,  sir." 

Hamilton  gazed  quizzically  at  Jean,  who  planted  him 
self  in  his  habitual  attitude  before  him  and  stared  up 
into  his  face  with  the  grotesque  expression  which 
seems  to  be  characteristic  of  hunchbacks  and  unfledged 
birds — the  look  of  an  embodied  and  hideous  joke. 

"Well,  sir,  what  will  you  have?"  the  Governor  de 
manded. 

"I  want  to  see  Alice,  if  you  please." 

"What  for?" 

"I  want  to  give  her  a  book  to  read." 

"Ah,  indeed.    Where  is  it?    Let  me  see  it." 

Jean  took  from  the  breast  of  his  loose  jerkin  a  small 
volume,  dog-eared  and  mildewed,  and  handed  it  to 
Hamilton.  Meantime  he  stood  first  on  one  foot,  then 
the  other,  gnawing  his  thumb-nail  and  blinking  rapidly. 

"Well,  Helm,  just  look  here!" 

"What?" 

"Manon  Lescaut." 


206         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"And  what's  that?" 

"Haven't  you  ever  read  it?" 

"Read  what?" 

"This  novel — Manon  Lescaut." 

"Never  read  a  novel  in  my  life.    Never  expect  to." 

Hamilton  laughed  freely  at  Helm's  expense,  then 
turned  to  Jean  and  gave  him  back  the  book. 

It  would  have  been  quite  military,  had  he  taken  the 
precaution  to  examine  between  the  pages  for  something 
hidden  there,  but  he  did  not. 

"Go,  give  it  to  her,"  he  said,  "and  tell  her  I  send  my 
compliments,  with  great  admiration  of  her  taste  in 
literature."  He  motioned  the  soldier  to  show  Jean  to 
Alice.  "It's  a  beastly  French  story,"  he  added,  ad 
dressing  Helm;  "immoral  enough  to  make  a  pirate 
blush.  That's  the  sort  of  girl  Mademoiselle  Roussillon 
is!" 

"I  don't  care  what  kind  of  a  book  she  reads,"  blurted 
Helm,  "she's  a  fine,  pure,  good  girl.  Everybody  likes 
her.  She's  the  good  angel  of  this  miserable  frog-hole 
of  a  town.  You'd  like  her  yourself,  if  you'd  straighten 
up  and  quit  burning  tow  in  your  brain  all  the  time. 
You're  always  so  furious  about  something  that  you 
never  have  a  chance  to  be  just  to  yourself,  or  pleasant 
to  anybody  else." 

Hamilton  turned  fiercely  on  Helm,  but  a  glimpse  of 
the  Captain's  broad  good-humored  face  heartily  smil 
ing,  dispelled  his  anger.  There  was  no  ground  upon 
which  to  maintain  a  quarrel  with  a  person  so  per 
sistently  genial  and  so  absurdly  frank.  And  in  fact 
Hamilton  was  not  half  so  bad  as  his  choleric  mani* 


Manon  Lescaut  207 

festations  seemed  to  make  him  out.  Besides,  Helm 
knew  just  how  far  to  go,  just  when  to  stop. 

"If  I  had  got  furious  at  you  every  time  there  was 
overwhelming  provocation  for  it,"  Hamilton  said, 
"you'd  have  been  long  since  hanged  or  shot.  I  fancy 
that  I  have  shown  angelic  forbearance.  I've  given 
you  somewhat  more  than  a  prisoner's  freedom." 

"So  you  have,  so  you  have,"  assented  Helm.  "I've 
often  been  surprised  at  your  generous  partiality  in  my 
case.  Let's  have  some  hot  water  with  something  else 
in  it,  what  do  you  say?  I  won't  give  you  any  more 
advice  for  five  minutes  by  your  watch." 

"But  I  want  some  advice  at  once." 

"What  about?" 

"That  girl." 

"Turn  her  loose.     That's  easy  and  reputable." 

"I'll  have  to,  I  presume;  but  she  ought  to  be  pun 
ished." 

"If  you'll  think  less  about  punishment,  revenge  and 
getting  even  with  everybody  and  everything,  you'll 
soon  begin  to  prosper." 

Hamilton  winced,  but  smiled  as  one  quite  sure  of 
himself. 

Jean  followed  the  soldier  to  a  rickety  log  pen  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  stockade,  where  he  found  the 
prisoner  restlessly  moving  about  like  a  bird  in  a  rustic 
cage.  It  had  no  comforts,  that  gloomy  little  room. 
There  was  no  fireplace,  the  roof  leaked,  and  the  only 
furniture  consisted  of  a  bench  to  sit  on  and  a  pile  of 
skins  for  bed.  Alice  looked  charmingly  forlorn  peep 
ing  out  of  the  wraps  in  which  she  was  bundled  against 


208         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  cold,  her  hair  fluffed  and  rimpled  in  shining  dis 
order  around  her  face. 

The  guard  let  Jean  in  and  closed  the  door,  himself 
staying  outside. 

Alice  was  as  glad  to  see  the  poor  lad  as  if  they  had 
been  parted  for  a  year.  She  hugged  him  and  kissed 
his  drawn  little  face. 

"You  dear,  good  Jean!"  she  murmured,  "you  did 
not  forget  me." 

"I  brought  you  something,"  he  whispered,  produc 
ing  the  book. 

Alice  snatched  it,  looked  at  it,  and  then  at  Jean. 

"Why,  what  did  you  bring  this  for  ?  you  silly  Jean ! 
I  didn't  want  this.  I  don't  like  this  book  at  all.  It's 
hateful.  I  despise  it.  Take  it  back." 

"There's  something  in  it  for  you,  a  paper  with  writ 
ing  on  it ;  Lieutenant  Beverley  wrote  it  on  there.  It's 
shut  up  between  the  leaves  about  the  middle." 

"Sh-s-sh !  not  so  loud,  the  guard'll  hear  you,"  Alice 
breathlessly  whispered,  her  whole  manner  changing 
instantly.  She  was  trembling,  and  the  color  had  been 
whisked  from  her  face,  as  the  flame  from  a  candle  in 
a  sudden  draught. 

She  found  the  note  and  read  it  a  dozen  times  with 
out  a  pause,  her  eyes  leaping  along  the  lines  back  and 
forth  with  pathetic  eagerness  and  concentration. 
Presently  she  sat  down  on  the  bench  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  A  tremor  first,  then  a  convulsive 
sobbing,  shook  her  collapsed  form.  Jean  regarded 
her  with  a  drolly  sympathetic  grimace,  elevating  his 


Manon  Lescaut  209 

long  chin  and  letting  his  head  settle  back  between  his 
shoulders. 

"Oh,  Jean,  Jean !"  she  cried  at  last,  looking  up  and 
reaching  out  her  arms;  "O  Jean,  he  is  gone,  gone, 
gone!" 

Jean  stepped  closer  to  her  while  she  sobbed  again 
like  a  little  child. 

She  pulled  him  to  her  and  held  him  tightly  against 
her  breast  while  she  once  more  read  the  note 
through  blinding  tears.  The  words  were  few,  but 
to  her  they  bore  the  message  of  desolation  and  despair. 
A  great,  haunting,  hollow  voice  in  her  heart  repeated 
them  until  they  echoed  from  vague  distance  to  dis 
tance. 

It  was  written  with  a  bit  of  lead  on  the  half  of  a 
mildewed  fly-leaf  torn  from  the  book : 

"Dear  Alice: 

"I  am  going  away.  When  you  read  this,  think  of  me 
as  hurrying  through  the  wilderness  to  reach  our  army 
and  bring  it  here.  Be  brave,  as  you  always  have  been ; 
be  good,  as  you  cannot  help  being;  wait  and  watch 
for  me ;  love  me,  as  I  love  you.  I  will  come.  Do  not 
doubt  it,  I  will  come,  and  I  will  crush  Hamilton  and 
his  command.  Courage,  Alice  dear;  courage,  and 
wait  for  me. 

"Faithfully  ever, 

"Beverley." 

She  kissed  the  paper  with  passionate  fervor,  pour 
ing  her  tears  upon  it  in  April  showers  between  which 
the  light  of  her  eyes  played  almost  fiercely,  so  poignant 
was  her  sense  of  a  despair  which  bordered  upon  des- 


2io          Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

peration.  "Gone,  gone!"  It  was  all  she  could  think  or 
say.  ''Gone,  gone  ' 

Jean  took  the  offending  novel  back  home  with  him, 
hidden  under  his  jerkin;  but  Beverley's  note  lay  upon 
Alice's  heart,  a  sweet  comfort  and  a  crushing  weight, 
when  an  hour  later  Hamilton  sent  for  her  and  she  was 
taken  before  him.  Her  face  was  stained  with  tears 
and  she  looked  pitifully  distressed  and  disheveled ;  yet 
despite  all  this  her  beauty  asserted  itself  with  subtle 
force. 

Hamilton  felt  ashamed  looking  at  her,  but  put  on 
sternness  and  spoke  without  apparent  sympathy: 

"Miss  Roussillon,  you  came  near  committing  a  great 
crime.  As  it  is,  you  have  done  badly  enough;  but  I 
wish  not  to  be  unreasonably  severe.  I  hope  you  are 
sorry  for  your  act,  and  feel  like  doing  better  here 
after." 

She  was  trembling,  but  her  eyes  looked  steadily 
straight  into  his.  They  were  eyes  of  baby  innocence, 
yet  they  irradiated  a  strong  womanly  spirit  just 
touched  with  the  old  perverse,  mischievous  light  which 
she  could  neither  banish  nor  control.  When  she  did 
not  make  reply,  Hamilton  continued: 

"You  may  go  home  now,  and  I  shall  expect  to  have 
no  more  trouble  on  your  account."  He  made  a  gesture 
indicative  of  dismissal ;  then,  as  she  turned  from  him, 
he  added,  somewhat  raising  his  voice: 

"And  further,  Miss  Roussillon,  that  flag  you  took 
from  here  must  positively  be  returned.  See  that  it  is 
done." 


Manon  Lescaut  211 

She  lifted  her  head  high  and  walked  away,  not 
deigning  to  give  him  a  word. 

"Humph !  what  do  you  think  now  of  your  fine  young 
lady  ?"  he  demanded,  turning  to  Helm  with  a  sneering 
curl  of  his  mouth.  "She  gives  thanks  copiously  for  a 
kindness,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Poor  girl,  she  was  scared  nearly  out  of  her  life," 
said  Helm.  "She  got  away  from  you,  like  a  wounded 
bird  from  a  snare.  I  never  saw  a  face  more  pitiful 
than  hers." 

"Much  pity  she  needs,  and  greatly  like  a  wounded 
bird  she  acts,  I  must  say;  but  good  riddance  if  she'll 
keep  her  place  hereafter.  I  despise  myself  when  I 
have  to  be  hard  with  a  woman,  especially  a  pretty  one. 
That  girl's  a  saucy  and  fascinating  minx,  and  as 
dangerous  as  twenty  men.  I'll  keep  a  watch  on  her 
movements  from  this  on,  and  if  she  gets  into  mischief 
again  I'll  transport  her  to  Detroit,  or  give  her  away 
to  the  Indians.  She  must  stop  her  high-handed  fool 
ishness." 

Helm  saw  that  Hamilton  was  talking  mere  wind,  vox 
et  praeterea  nihil,  and  he  furthermore  felt  that  his 
babbling  signified  no  harm  to  Alice;  but  Hamilton 
surprised  him  presently  by  saying : 

"I  have  just  learned  that  Lieutenant  Beverley  is 
actually  gone.  Did  you  know  of  his  departure?" 

"What  are  you  saying,  sir?" 

Helm  jumped  to  his  feet,  not  angry,  but  excited. 

"Keep  cool,  you  need  not  answer  if  you  prefer  si 
lence  or  evasion.  You  may  want  to  go  yourself  soon." 


212          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Helm  burst  out  laughing,  but  quickly  growing  seri 
ous  said: 

"Has  Beverley  been  such  a  driveling  fool  as  that? 
Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"He  killed  two  of  my  scouts,  wounded  another,  and 
crossed  the  Wabash  in  their  canoe.  He  is  going 
straight  towards  Kaskaskia." 

"The  idiot!  Hurrah  for  him!  If  you  catch  your 
hare  you  may  roast  him,  but  catch  him  first,  Gover 
nor!" 

"You'll  joke  out  of  the  other  corner  of  your  mouth, 
Captain  Helm,  if  I  find  out  that  you  gave  him  aid  or 
countenance  in  breaking  his  parole." 

"Aid  or  countenance!  I  never  saw  him  after  he 
walked  out  of  this  room.  You  gave  him  a  devil  of  a 
sight  more  aid  and  countenance  than  I  did.  What  are 
you  talking  about !  Broke  his  parole !  He  did  no  such 
thing.  He  returned  it  to  you  fairly,  as  you  well  know. 
He  told  you  he  was  going." 

"Well,  I've  sent  twenty  of  my  swiftest  Indians  after 
him  to  bring  him  back.  I'll  let  you  see  him  shot.  That 
ought  to  please  you." 

"They'll  never  get  him,  Governor.  I'll  bet  high  on 
him  against  your  twenty  scalp-lifters  any  day.  Fitz' 
hugh  Beverley  is  the  best  Indian  fighter,  Daniel  Boone 
and  Simon  Kenton  excepted,  in  the  American  col 
onies." 

On  her  way  home  Alice  met  Father  Beret,  who 
turned  and  walked  beside  her.  He  was  so  overjoyed  at 
her  release  that  he  could  scarcely  speak ;  but  held  her 
hand  and  stroked  it  gently  while  she  told  him  her 


Manon  Lescaut  213 

story.  It  was  beginning  to  rain,  a  steady,  cold  shower, 
when  they  reached  the  house,  and  for  many  days  and 
nights  thereafter  the  downfall  continued  almost  in 
cessantly. 

"Dear  child,"  said  Father  Beret,  stopping  at  the  gate 
and  looking  beseechingly  into  Alice's  face,  "you  must 
stay  at  home  now — stay  in  the  house — it  will  be  hor 
ribly  dangerous  for  you  to  pass  about  in  the  village 
after  your — after  what  has  happened." 

"Do  not  fear,  Father,  I  will  be  careful.  Aren't  you 
coming  in  ?  I'll  find  you  a  cake  and  a  glass  of  wine." 

"No,  child,  not  now." 

"Then  good-bye,  good-bye,"  she  said,  turning  from 
him  to  run  -'nto  the  house.  "Come  soon,  I  shall  be 
so  lonesome." 

On  the  veranda  she  suddenly  stopped,  running  her 
fingers  about  her  neck  and  into  her  bosom. 

"Oh,  Father,  Father  Beret,  I've  lost  my  locket!" 
she  cried.  "See  if  I  dropped  it  there." 

She  went  back  to  the  gate,  searching  the  ground  with 
her  eyes.  Of  course  she  did  not  find  the  locket.  It 
was  miles  and  miles  away  close  tc  the  heart  of  her 
lover.  If  she  could  but  have  known  this,  it  would  have 
comforted  her.  Beverley  had  intended  to  leave  it  with 
Jean,  but  in  his  haste  and  excitement  he  forgot ;  writ 
ing  the  note  distracted  his  attention.;  and  so  he  bore 
Alice's  picture  on  his  breast  and  in  his  heart  while 
pursuing  his  long  and  perilous  journey. 

Four  of  Hamilton's  scouts  came  upon  Beverley 
twenty  miles  south  of  Vincennes,  but  having  the  ad 
vantage  of  them,  he  killed  two  almost  immediately, 


214          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

and  after  a  running  fight,  the  other  two  attempted  es 
cape  in  a  canoe  on  the  Wabash.  Here,  firing  from  a 
bluff,  he  wounded  a  third.  Both  then  plunged  head 
foremost  into  the  water,  and  by  keeping  below  the  sur 
face,  got  away.  The  adventure  gave  Beverley  new 
spirit  and  self-reliance;  he  felt  that  he  could  accom 
plish  anything  necessary  to  his  undertaking.  In  the 
captured  pirogue  he  crossed  the  river,  and,  to  make 
his  trail  hard  to  find,  sent  the  little  craft  adrift  down 
the  current. 

Then  alone,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  he  took  his  bear 
ings  and  struck  across  the  dreary,  houseless  plain  to 
ward  St.  Louis. 

As  soon  as  Hamilton's  discomfited  scouts  reported  to 
him,  he  sent  Long-Hair  with  twenty  picked  savages, 
armed  and  supplied  for  continuous  and  rapid  march 
ing,  in  pursuit  of  Beverley.  There  was  a  large  reward 
for  bringing  him  in  alive,  a  smaller  one  for  his  scalp. 

When  Alice  heard  of  all  this,  her  buoyant  and  happy 
nature  seemed  entirely  to  desert  her  for  a  time.  She 
was  proud  to  find  out  that  Beverley  had  shown  himself 
brave  and  capable;  it  touched  her  love  of  heroism; 
but  she  knew  too  much  about  Indian  warfare  to  hope 
that  he  could  hold  his  own  against  Long-Hair,  the 
wiliest  and  boldest  of  scalp-hunters,  and  twenty  of  the 
most  experienced  braves  in  Hamilton's  forces.  He 
would  almost  certainly  be  killed  and  scalped,  or  cap 
tured  and  brought  back  to  be  shot  or  hanged  in  Vin 
cennes.  The  thought  chilled  and  curdled  her  blood. 

Both  Helm  and  Father  Beret  tried  to  encourage  and 


Manon  Lescaut  215 

comfort  her  by  representing  the  probabilities  in  the 
fairest  light. 

"It's  like  hunting  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  going 
out  to  find  a  man  in  that  wilderness,"  said  Helm  with 
optimistic  cheerfulness;  "and  besides  Beverley  is  no 
easy  dose  for  twenty  red  niggers  to  take.  I've  seen 
him  tried  at  worse  odds  than  that,  and  he  got  out  with 
a  whole  skin,  too.  Don't  you  fret  about  him,  Miss 
Roussillon." 

Little  help  came  to  her  from  attempts  of  this  sort. 
She  might  brighten  up  for  a  while,  but  the  dark  dread, 
and  the  terrible  gnawing  at  her  heart,  the  sinking  and 
despairing  in  her  soul,  could  not  be  cured. 

What  added  immeasurably  to  her  distress  was  the 
attention  of  Farnsworth,  whose  wound  troubled  him 
but  a  short  time.  He  seemed  to  have  had  a  revela 
tion  and  a  change  of  spirit  since  the  unfortunate  ren 
counter  and  the  subsequent  nursing  at  Alice's  hands. 
He  was  grave,  earnest,  kindly,  evidently  striving  to 
play  a  gentle  and  honorable  part.  She  could  feel  that 
he  carried  a  load  of  regret,  that  he  wanted  to  pay  a 
full  price  in  good  for  the  evil  that  he  had  done;  his 
sturdy  English  heart  was  righting  itself  nobly,  yet  she 
but  half  understood  him,  until  his  actions  and  words 
began  to  betray  his  love ;  and  then  she  hated  him  un 
reasonably.  Realizing  this,  Farnsworth  bore  himself 
more  like  a  faithful  dog  than  in  the  manner  hitherto 
habitual  to  him.  He  simply  shadowed  Alice  and  would 
not  be  rebuffed. 

There  can  be  nothing  more  painful  to  a  finely  sym 
pathetic  nature  then  regret  for  having  done  a  kind- 


2io          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ness.  Alice  experienced  this  to  the  fullest  degree. 
She  had  nursed  Farnsworth  but  a  little  while,  yet  it 
was  a  while  of  sweet  influence.  Her  tender  woman 
nature  felt  the  blessedness  of  doing  good  to 
her  enemy  lying  helpless  in  her  house  and  hurt  by  her 
own  hand.  But  now  she  hated  the  man,  and  with  all 
her  soul  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  been  kind  to  him ; 
for  out  of  her  kindness  he  had  drawn  the  spell  of  a 
love  under  which  he  lived  a  new  life,  and  all  for  her. 
Yet  deep  down  in  her  consciousness  the  pity  and  the 
pathos  of  the  thing  hovered  gloomily  and  would  not 
be  driven  out. 

The  rain  in  mid- winter  gave  every  prospect  a  sad, 
cold,  sodden  gray  appearance.  The  ground  was  soaked, 
little  rills  ran  in  the  narrow  streets,  the  small  streams 
became  great  rivers,  the  Wabash  overflowed  its  banks 
and  made  a  sea  of  all  the  lowlands  on  either  side.  It 
was  hard  on  the  poor  dwellers  in  the  thatched  and 
mostly  floorless  cabins,  for  the  grass  roofs  gradually 
let  the  water  through  and  puddles  formed  on  the 
ground  inside.  Fuel  was  distant  and  had  to  be  hauled 
in  the  pouring  rain ;  provisions  were  scarce  and  hunt 
ing  almost  impossible.  Many  people,  especially  chil 
dren,  were  taken  ill  with  colds  and  fever.  Alice  found 
some  relief  from  her  trouble  in  going  from  cabin  to 
cabin  and  waiting  upon  the  sufferers ;  but  even  here 
Farnsworth  could  not  be  got  rid  of ;  he  followed  her 
night  and  day.  Never  was  a  good  soldier,  for  he  was 
that  from  head  to  foot,  more  lovelorn  and  love-docile. 
The  maiden  had  completely  subdued  the  man. 

About  this  time,  deep  in  a  rainy  and  pitch-black 


Manon  Lescaut  217 

night,  Gaspard  Roussillon  came  home.  He  tapped  on 
the  door  again  and  again.  Alice  heard,  but  she  hesi 
tated  to  speak  or  move.  Was  she  growing  cowardly  ? 
Her  heart  beat  like  a  drum.  There  was  but  one  person 
in  all  the  world  that  she  could  think  of — it  was  not  M. 
Roussillon.  Ah,  no,  she  had  well-nigh  forgotten  her 
gigantic  foster  father. 

"It  is  I,  ma  cherie,  it  is  Gaspard,  my  love,  open  the 
door,"  came  in  a  booming  half-whisper  from  without. 
"Alice,  Jean,  it  is  your  Papa  Roussillon,  my  dears.  Let 
me  in." 

Alice  was  at  the  door  in  a  minute,  unbarring  it.  M. 
Roussillon  entered,  armed  to  the  teeth,  the  water 
dribbling  from  his  buckskin  clothes. 

"Pouf !"  he  exclaimed,  "my  throat  is  like  dust."  His 
thoughts  were  diving  into  the  stores  under  the  floor. 
"I  am  famished.  Dear  children,  dear  little  ones! 
They  are  glad  to  see  papa !  Where  is  your  mama  ?" 

He  had  Alice  in  his  arms  and  Jean  clung  to  his  legs. 
Madame  Roussillon,  to  be  sure  of  no  mistake,  lighted  a 
lamp  with  a  brand  that  smoldered  on  the  hearth  and 
held  it  up,  then,  satisfied  as  to  her  husband's  identity, 
set  it  on  a  shelf  and  flung  herself  into  the  affectionate 
group  with  clumsy  abandon,  making  a  great  noise. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Gaspard!"  she  cried  as  she  lunged 
forward.  "Gaspard,  Gaspard !"  Her  voice  fairly  lifted 
the  roof;  her  great  weight,  hurled  with  such  force, 
overturned  everybody,  and  all  of  them  tumbled  in  a 
heap,  the  rotund  and  solid  dame  sitting  on  top. 

"Ouf !  not  so  impetuous,  my  dear,"  puffed  M.  Rous 
sillon,  freeing  himself  from  her  unpleasant  pressure 


218          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

and  scrambling  to  his  feet.  "Really  you  must  have 
fared  well  in  my  absence,  Madame,  you  are  much 
heavier."  He  laughed  and  lifted  her  up  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child,  kissing  her  resonantly. 

His  gun  had  fallen  with  a  great  clatter.  He  took 
it  from  the  floor  and  examined  it  to  see  if  it  had  been 
injured,  then  set  it  in  a  corner. 

"I  am  afraid  we  have  been  making  too  much  noise," 
said  Alice,  speaking  very  low.  "There  is  a  patrol 
guard  every  night  now.  If  they  should  hear  you " 

"Shh!"  whispered  M.  Roussillon,  "we  will  be  very 
still.  Alice,  is  there  something  to  eat  and  a  drop  of 
wine  handy?  I  have  come  many  miles;  I  am  tired, 
hungry,  thirsty, — ziff !" 

Alice  brought  some  cold  roast  venison,  a  loaf,  and 
a  bottle  of  claret.  These  she  set  before  him  on  a  little 
table. 

"Ah,  this  is  comfort,"  he  said  after  he  had  gulped 
a  full  cup.  "Have  you  all  been  well?" 

Then  he  began  to  tell  where  he  had  been,  what  he 
had  seen,  and  the  many  things  he  had  done.  A  French 
man  must  babble  while  he  eats  and  drinks.  A  little 
wine  makes  him  eloquent.  He  talks  with  his  hands, 
shoulders,  eyes.  Madame  Roussillon,  Alice  and  Jean, 
wrapped  in  furs,  huddled  around  him  to  hear.  He 
was  very  entertaining,  and  they  forgot  the  patrol  until 
a  noise  startled  them.  It  was  the  low  of  a  cow.  They 
laughed  and  the  master  of  the  house  softened  his 
voice. 

M.  Roussillon  had  been  the  guest  of  a  great  Indian 
chieftain,  who  was  called  the  "Gate  of  the  Wabash," 


Manon  Lescaut  219 

because  he  controlled  the  river.  The  chief  was  an  old 
acquaintance  and  treated  him  well. 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  you  all,"  Gaspard  said.  "I 
was  afraid  something  might  have  happened  to  you. 
So  I  came  back  just  to  peep  in.  I  can't  stay,  of  course ; 
Hamilton  would  kill  me  as  if  I  were  a  wolf.  I  can 
remain  but  an  hour  and  then  slip  out  of  town  again 
before  daylight  comes.  The  rain  and  darkness  are 
my  friends." 

He  had  seen  Simon  Kenton,  who  said  he  had  been 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Vincennes  acting  as  a  scout 
and  spy  for  Clark.  Presently  and  quite  casually  he 
added : 

"And  I  saw  Lieutenant  Beverley,  too.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  he  has  escaped  from  Hamilton,  and — " 
Here  a  big  mouthful  of  venison  interfered. 

Alice  leaned  toward  him  white  and  breathless,  her 
heart  standing  still. 

Then  the  door,  which  had  been  left  unbarred,  was 
flung  open  and,  along  with  a  great  rush  of  wind  and 
rain,  the  patrol  guard,  five  in  number,  sprang  in. 

M.  Roussillon  reached  his  gun  with  one  hand,  with 
the  other  swung  a  tremendous  blow  as  he  leaped 
against  the  intruders.  Madame  Roussillon  blew  out 
the  light.  No  cave  in  the  depth  of  earth  was  ever 
darker  than  that  room.  The  patrolmen  could  not  see 
one  another  or  know  what  to  do;  but  M.  Roussillon 
laid  about  him  with  the  strength  of  a  giant.  His  blows 
sounded  as  if  they  smashed  bones.  Men  fell  heavily 
thumping  on  the  floor  where  he  rushed  along.  Some 
one  fired  a  pistol  and  by  its  flash  they  all  saw  him; 


220         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

but  instantly  the  darkness  closed  again,  and  before 
they  could  get  their  bearings  he  was  out  and  gone,  his 
great  hulking  form  making  its  way  easily  over  familiar 
ground  where  his  would-be  captors  could  have  pro 
ceeded  but  slowly,  even  with  a  light  to  guide  them. 

There  was  furious  cursing  among  the  patrolmen  as 
they  tumbled  about  in  the  room,  the  unhurt  ones 
trampling  their  prostrate  companions  and  striking 
wildly  at  each  other  in  their  blindness  and  confusion. 
At  last  one  of  them  bethought  him  to  open  a  dark  lan 
tern  with  which  the  night  guards  were  furnished.  Its 
flame  was  fluttering  and  gave  forth  a  pale  red  light 
that  danced  weirdly  on  the  floors  and  walls. 

Alice  had  snatched  down  one  of  her  rapiers  when 
the  guards  first  entered.  They  now  saw  her  facing 
them  with  her  slender  blade  leveled,  her  back  to  the 
wall,  her  eyes  shining  dangerously.  Madame  Rous- 
sillon  had  fled  into  the  adjoining  room.  Jean  had  also 
disappeared.  The  officer,  a  subaltern,  in  charge  of 
the  guard,  seeing  Alice,  and  not  quickly  able  to  make 
out  that  it  was  a  woman  thus  defying  him,  crossed 
swords  with  her.  There  was  small  space  for  action; 
moreover  the  officer  being  not  in  the  least  a  swords 
man,  played  awkwardly,  and  quick  as  a  flash  his  point 
was  down.  The  rapier  entered  just  below  his  throat 
with  a  dull  chucking  stab.  He  leaped  backward,  feel 
ing  at  the  same  time  a  pair  of  arms  clasp  his  legs.  It 
was  Jean,  and  the  Lieutenant,  thus  unexpectedly 
tangled,  fell  to  the  floor,  breaking  but  not  extinguish 
ing  the  guard's  lantern  as  he  went  down.  The  little 
remaining  oil  spread  and  flamed  up  brilliantly,  as  if 


Manon  Lescaut  221 

eager  for  conflagration,  sputtering  along  the  uneven 
boards. 

"Kill  that  devil!"  cried  the  Lieutenant,  in  a 
strangling  voice,  while  trying  to  regain  his  feet. 
"Shoot!  Bayonet!" 

In  his  pain,  rage  and  haste,  he  inadvertently  set 
his  hand  in  the  midst  of  the  blazing  oil,  which  clung  to 
the  flesh  with  a  seething  grip. 

"Hell !"  he  screamed,  "fire,  fire !" 

Two  or  three  bayonets  were  leveled  upon  Alice. 
Some  one  kicked  Jean  clean  across  the  room,  and  he  lay 
there  curled  up  in  his  hairy  night-wrap  looking  like 
an  enormous  porcupine. 

At  this  point  a  new  performer  came  upon  the  stage, 
a  dark-robed  thing,  so  active  that  its  outlines  changed 
elusively,  giving  it  no  recognizable  features.  It  might 
have  been  the  devil  himself,  or  some  terrible  unknown 
wild  animal  clad  somewhat  to  resemble  a  man,  so  far 
as  the  startled  guards  could  make  out.  It  clawed  right 
and  left,  hurled  one  of  them  against  the  wall,  dashed 
another  through  the  door  into  Madame  Roussillon's 
room,  where  the  good  woman  was  wailing  at  the  top 
of  her  voice,  and  felled  a  third  with  a  stroke  like  that 
of  a  bear's  paw. 

Consternation  was  at  high  tide  when  Farnsworth, 
who  always  slept  with  an  ear  open,  reached  Roussillon 
place  and  quickly  quieted  things.  He  was  troubled 
beyond  expression  when  he  found  out  the  true  state 
of  the  affair,  for  there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do 
but  arrest  Alice  and  take  her  to  Hamilton.  It  made 
his  heart  sink.  He  would  have  thought  little  of  order- 


222         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ing  a  file  of  soldiers  to  shoot  a  man  under  the  same 
conditions ;  but  to  subject  her  again  to  the  Governor's 
stern  cruelty — how  could  he  do  it?  This  time  there 
would  be  no  hope  for  her. 

Alice  stood  before  him  flushed,  disheveled,  defiant, 
sword  in  hand,  beautiful  and  terrible  as  an  angel.  The 
black  figure,  man  or  devil,  had  disappeared  as  strange 
ly  as  it  had  come.  The  sub-Lieutenant  was  having  his 
slight  wound  bandaged.  Men  were  raging  and  curs 
ing  under  their  breath,  rubbing  their  bruised  heads 
and  limbs. 

"Alice — Mademoiselle  Roussillon,  I  am  so  sorry 
for  this,"  said  Captain  Farnsworth.  "It  is  painful, 
terrible " 

He  could  not  go  on,  but  stood  before  her  unmanned. 
In  the  feeble  light  his  face  was  wan  and  his  hurt  shoul 
der,  still  in  bandages,  drooped  perceptibly. 

"I  surrender  to  you,"  she  presently  said  in  French, 
extending  the  hilt  of  her  rapier  to  him.  "I  had  to 
defend  myself  when  attacked  by  your  Lieutenant  there. 
If  an  officer  finds  it  necessary  to  set  upon  a  girl  with 
his  sword,  may  not  the  girl  guard  her  life  if  she  can?" 

She  was  short  of  breath,  so  that  her  voice  palpitated 
with  a  touching  plangency  that  shook  the  man's  heart. 

Farnsworth  accepted  the  sword ;  he  could  do  nothing 
less.  His  duty  admitted  of  no  doubtful  consideration ; 
yet  he  hesitated,  feeling  around  in  his  mind  for  a 
phrase  with  which  to  evade  the  inevitable. 

"It  will  be  safer  for  you  at  the  fort,  Mademoiselle; 
let  me  take  you  there." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  MEETING  IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

Beverley  set  out  on  his  mid-winter  journey  to  Kas- 
kaskia  with  a  tempest  in  his  heart,  and  it  was,  per 
haps,  the  storm's  energy  that  gave  him  the  courage 
to  face  undaunted  and  undoubting  what  his  experience 
must  have  told  him  lay  in  his  path.  He  was  young  and 
strong ;  that  meant  a  great  deal ;  he  had  taken  the  des 
perate  chances  of  Indian  warfare  many  times  before 
this,  and  the  danger  counted  as  nothing,  save  that  it 
offered  the  possibility  of  preventing  him  from  doing 
the  one  thing  in  life  he  now  cared  to  do.  What  meant 
suffering  to  him,  if  he  could  but  rescue  Alice?  And 
what  were  life  should  he  fail  to  rescue  her  ?  The  old, 
old  song  hummed  in  his  heart,  every  phrase  of  it  dis 
tinct  above  the  tumult  of  the  storm.  Could  cold  and 
hunger,  swollen  streams,  ravenous  wild  beasts  and 
scalp-hunting  savages  baffle  him?  No,  there  is  no 
barrier  that  can  hinder  love.  He  said  this  over  and 
over  to  himself  after  his  rencounter  with  the  four  In 
dian  scouts  on  the  Wabash.  He  repeated  it  with  every 
heart-beat  until  he  fell  in  with  some  friendly  red  men, 
who  took  him  to  their  camp,  where  to  his  great  sur 
prise  he  met  M.  Roussillon.  It  was  his  song  when 
again  he  strode  off  toward  the  west  on  his  lonely  way. 

We  need  not  follow  him  step  by  step ;  the  monotony 
of  the  woods  and  prairies,  the  cold  rains,  alternating 
with  northerly  winds  and  blinding  snow,  the  constant 

281 


224        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

watchfulness  necessary  to  guard  against  a  meeting 
with  hostile  savages,  the  tiresome  tramping,  wading 
and  swimming,  the  hunger,  the  broken  and  wretched 
sleep  in  frozen  and  scant  wraps, — why  detail  it  all? 

There  was  but  one  beautiful  thing  about  it — the 
beauty  of  Alice  as  she  seemed  to  walk  beside  him  and 
hover  near  him  in  his  dreams.  He  did  not  know  that 
Long-Hair  and  his  band  were  fast  on  his  track;  but 
the  knowledge  could  not  have  urged  him  to  greater 
haste.  He  strained  every  muscle  to  its  utmost,  kept 
every  nerve  to  the  highest  tension.  Yonder  towards 
the  west  was  help  for  Alice ;  that  was  all  he  cared  for. 

But  if  Long-Hair  was  pursuing  him  with  relentless 
greed  for  the  reward  offered  by  Hamilton,  there  were 
friendly  footsteps  still  nearer  behind  him;  and  one  day 
at  high  noon,  while  he  was  bending  over  a  little  fire, 
broiling  some  liberal  cuts  of  venison,  a  ringer  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  He  sprang  up  and  grappled 
Oncle  Jazon;  at  the  same  time,  standing  near  by,  he 
saw  Simon  Kenton,  his  old-time  Kentucky  friend.  The 
pungled  features  of  one  and  the  fine,  rugged  face  of 
the  other  swam  as  in  a  mist  before  Beverley's  eyes. 
Kenton  was  laughing  quietly,  his  strong,  upright  form 
shaking  to  the  force  of  his  pleasure.  He  was  in  the 
early  prime  of  a  vigorous  life,  not  handsome,  but 
strikingly  attractive  by  reason  of  a  certain  glow  in  his 
face  and  a  kindly  flash  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"Well,  well,  my  boy!"  he  exclaimed,  laying  his  left 
hand  on  Beverley's  shoulder,  while  in  the  other  he  held 
a  long,  heavy  rifle.  "I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  glad  to  see 
ye!" 


In  the  Wilderness  225 

"Thought  we  was  Injuns,  eh?"  said  Oncle  Jazon. 
"An'  ef  we  had  'a'  been  we'd  'a'  been  shore  o'  your 
scalp !"  The  wizzened  old  Creole  cackled  gleefully. 

"And  where  are  ye  goin'?"  demanded  Kenton. 
"Ye're  making  what  lacks  a  heap  o'  bein'  a  bee-line 
for  some  place  or  other." 

Beverley  was  dazed  and  vacant-minded;  things 
seemed  wavering  and  dim.  He  pushed  the  two  men 
from  him  and  gazed  at  them  without  speaking.  Their 
presence  and  voices  did  not  convince  him. 

"Yer  meat's  a  burnin',"  said  Oncle  Jazon,  stooping 
to  turn  it  on  the  smouldering  coals.  "Ye  must  be  hun 
gry.  Cookin'  enough  for  a  regiment." 

Kenton  shook  Beverley  with  rough  familiarity,  as 
if  to  rouse  his  faculties. 

"What's  the  matter?  Fitz,  my  lad,  don't  ye  know 
Si  Kenton?  It's  not  so  long  since  we  were  like  broth 
ers,  and  now  ye  don't  speak  to  me!  Ye've  not  for 
got  me,  Fitz!" 

"Mebby  he  don't  like  ye  as  well  as  ye  thought  he 
did,"  drawled  Oncle  Jazon.  "I  hev  known  o'  fellers 
a  bein'  mistaken  jes'  thet  way." 

Beverley  got  his  wits  together  as  best  he  could, 
taking  in  the  situation  by  such  degrees  as  seemed  at 
the  time  unduly  slow,  but  which  were  really  mere  mo 
mentary  falterings. 

"Why,  Kenton!  Jazon!"  he  presently  exclaimed, 
a  cordial  gladness  blending  with  his  surprise.  "How 
did  you  get  here?  Where  did  you  come  from?" 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  back  and  forth  with 


226        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

a  wondering  smile  breaking  over  his  bronzed  and  de 
termined  face. 

"We've  been  hot  on  yer  trail  for  thirty  hours,"  said 
Kenton.  "Roussillon  put  us  on  it  back  yonder.  But 
what  are  ye  up  to?  Where  are  ye  goin'?" 

"I'm  going  to  Clark  at  Kaskaskia  to  bring  him  yon 
der."  He  waved  his  hand  eastward.  "I  am  going  to 
take  Vincennes  and  kill  Hamilton." 

"Well,  ye're  taking  a  mighty  queer  course,  my  boy, 
if  ye  ever  expect  to  find  Kaskaskia.  Ye're  already 
twenty  miles  too  far  south." 

"Carryin'  his  gun  on  the  same  shoulder  all  the  time," 
said  Oncle  Jazon,  "has  made  'im  kind  o'  swing  in  a 
curve  like.  'Tain't  good  luck  no  how  to  carry  yer  gun 
on  yer  lef  shoulder.  When  you  do  it  meks  yer  take 
a  longer  step  with  yer  right  foot  than  ye  do  with  yer 
lef,  an'  ye  can't  walk  a  straight  line  to  save  yer  liver. 
Ventrebleu!  la  venaison  brule  encore!  Look  at  that 
dasted  meat  burnin'  agin!" 

He  jumped  back  to  the  fire  to  turn  the  scorching 
cuts. 

Beverley  wrung  Kenton's  hand  and  looked  into  his 
eyes,  as  a  man  does  when  an  old  friend  comes  sud 
denly  out  of  the  past,  so  to  say,  and  brings  the  fresh 
ness  and  comfort  of  a  strong,  true  soul  to  brace  him 
in  his  hour  of  greatest  need. 

"Of  all  men  in  the  world,  Simon  Kenton,  you  were 
the  least  expected;  but  how  glad  I  am!  How  thank 
ful!  Now  I  know  I  shall  succeed.  We  are  going  to 
capture  Vincennes,  Kenton,  are  we  not?  We  shall, 


In  the  Wilderness  227 

sha'n't  we,  Jazon?  Nothing,  nothing  can  prevent  us, 
can  it?" 

Kenton  heartily  returned  the  pressure  of  the  young 
man's  hand,  while  Oncle  Jazon  looked  up  quizzically 
and  said: 

"We're  a  tol'ble  'spectable  lot  to  prevent;  but  then 
we  might  git  pervented.  I've  seed  better  men  'an  us 
purty  consid'ble  pervented  lots  o'  times  in  my  life." 

In  speaking  the  colloquial  dialect  of  the  American 
backwoodsmen,  Oncle  Jazon,  despite  years  of  practice 
among  them,  gave  to  it  a  creole  lisp  and  some  turns 
of  pronunciation  not  to  be  indicated  by  any  form  of 
spelling.  It  added  to  his  talk  a  peculiar  soft  drollery. 
When  he  spoke  French  it  was  mostly  that  of  the 
courcurs  de  bois,  a  patois  which  still  lingers  in  out-of- 
the-way  nooks  of  Louisiana. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Kenton,  "I  am  with  ye,  old 
boy,  in  anything  ye  want  to  do.  But  now  ye've  got 
to  tell  me  everything.  I  see  that  ye're  keeping  some 
thing  back.  What  is  it!"  He  glanced  sidewise  slyly 
at  Oncle  Jazon. 

Beverley  was  frank  to  a  fault;  but  somehow  his 
heart  tried  to  keep  Alice  all  to  itself.  He  hesitated; 
then 

"I  broke  my  parole  with  Governor  Hamilton,"  he 
said.  "He  forced  me  to  do  it.  I  feel  altogether  justi 
fied.  I  told  him  beforehand  that  I  should  certainly 
leave  Vincennes  and  go  get  a  force  to  capture  and  kill 
him;  and  I'll  do  it,  Simon  Kenton,  I'll  do  it!" 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Kenton  assented,  "but  what  was  the 
row  about?  What  did  he  do  to  excite  ye — to  make 


228        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ye  feel  justified  in  breakin'  over  yer  parole  in  that 
high-handed  way?  Fitz,  I  know  ye  too  well  to  be 
fooled  by  ye — you've  got  somethin'  in  mind  that  ye 
don't  want  to  tell.  Well,  then  don't  tell  it.  Oncle 
Jazon  and  I  will  go  it  blind,  won't  we,  Jazon?" 

"Blind  as  two  moles,"  said  the  old  man ;  "but  as  for 
thet  secret,"  he  added,  winking  both  eyes  at  once,  "I 
don't  know  as  it's  so  mighty  hard  to  guess.  It's  al 
ways  safe  to  'magine  a  woman  in  the  case.  It's  mostly 
women  'at  sends  men  a  trottin'  off  'bout  nothin',  sort  o* 
crazy  like." 

Beverley  looked  guilty  and  Oncle  Jazon  continued : 

"They's  a  poo'ty  gal  at  Vincennes,  an'  I  see  the 
young  man  a  steppin'  into  her  house  about  fifteen 
times  a  day  'fore  I  lef  the  place.  Mebbe  she's  tuck 
up  wi'  one  o'  them  English  officers.  Gals  is  slippery 
an*  onsartin'." 

"Jazon  1"  cried  Beverley,  "stop  that  instantly,  or  I'll 
wring  your  old  neck."  His  anger  was  real  and  he 
meant  what  he  said.  He  clenched  his  hands  and  glow 
ered. 

Oncle  Jazon,  who  was  still  squatting  by  the  little 
fire,  tumbled  over  backwards,  as  if  Beverley  had  kicked 
him;  and  there  he  lay  on  the  ground  with  his  slender 
legs  quivering  akimbo  in  the  air,  while  he  laughed  in 
a  strained  treble  that  sounded  like  the  whining  of  a 
screech-owl. 

The  old  scamp  did  not  know  all  the  facts  in  Bever- 
ley's  case,  nor  did  he  even  suspect  what  had  happened ; 
but  he  was  aware  of  the  young  man's  tender  feeling 


In  the  Wilderness  229 

for  Alice,  and  he  did  shrewdly  conjecture  that  she 
was  a  factor  in  the  problem. 

The  rude  jest  at  her  expense  did  not  seem  to  his 
withered  and  toughened  taste  in  the  least  out  of  the 
way.  Indeed  it  was  a  delectable  bit  of  humor  from 
Oncle  Jazon's  point  of  view. 

"Don't  get  mad  at  the  old  man,"  said  Kenton,  pluck 
ing  Beverley  aside.  "He's  yer  friend  from  his  heels 
to  his  old  scalped  crown.  Let  him  have  his  fun." 
Then  lowering  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  he  con 
tinued: 

"I  was  in  Vincennes  for  two  days  and  nights 
spyin'  around.  Madame  Godere  hid  me  in  her  house 
when  there  was  need  of  it.  I  know  how  it  is  with  ye; 
I  got  all  the  gossip  about  ye  and  the  young  lady,  as 
well  as  all  the  information  about  Hamilton  and  his 
forces  that  Colonel  Clark  wants.  I'm  goin'  to  Kas- 
kaskia ;  but  I  think  it  quite  possible  that  Clark  will  be 
on  his  march  to  Vincennes  before  we  get  there;  for 
Vigo  has  taken  him  full  particulars  as  to  the  fort  and 
its  garrison,  and  I  know  that  he's  determined  to  cap 
ture  the  whole  thing  or  die  tryin'." 

Beverley  felt  his  heart  swell  and  his  blood  leap 
strong  in  his  veins  at  these  words. 

"I  saw  ye  while  I  was  in  Vincennes,"  Kenton 
added,  "but  I  never  let  ye  see  me.  Ye  were  a  pris 
oner,  and  I  had  no  business  with  ye  while  your  parole 
held.  I  felt  that  it  was  best  not  to  tempt  ye  to  give 
me  aid,  or  to  let  ye  have  knowledge  of  me  while  I 
was  a  spy.  I  left  two  days  before  ye  did,  and  should 
have  been  at  Kaskaskia  by  this  time  if  I  hadn't  run 


230         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

across  Jazon,  who  detained  me.  He  wanted  to  go  with 
me,  and  I  waited  for  him  to  repair  the  stock  of  his  old 
gun.  He  tinkered  at  it  'tween  meals  and  showers 
for  half  a  week  at  the  Indian  village  back  yonder  before 
he  got  it  just  to  suit  him.  But  I  tell  ye  he's  wo'th 
waiting  for  any  length  of  time,  and  I  was  glad  to  let 
him  have  his  way." 

Kenton,  who  was  still  a  young  man  in  his  early 
thirties,  respected  Beverley's  reticence  on  the  subject 
uppermost  in  his  mind.  Madame  Godere  had  told  the 
whole  story  with  flamboyant  embellishments;  Kenton 
had  seen  Alice,  and,  inspired  with  the  gossip  and  a 
surreptitious  glimpse  of  her  beauty,  he  felt  perfectly 
familiar  with  Beverley's  condition.  He  was  himself 
a  victim  of  the  tender  passion  to  the  extent  of  being 
an  exile  from  his  Virginia  home,  which  he  had  left  on 
account  of  dangerously  wounding  a  rival.  But  he  was 
well  touched  with  the  backwoodsman's  taste  for  joke 
and  banter.  He  and  Oncle  Jazon,  therefore,  knowing 
the  main  feature  of  Beverley's  predicament,  enjoyed 
making  the  most  of  their  opportunity  in  their  rude  but 
perfectly  generous  and  kindly  way. 

By  indirection  and  impersonal  details,  as  regarded 
his  feelings  toward  Alice,  Beverley  in  due  time  made 
his  friends  understand  that  his  whole  ambition  was 
centered  in  rescuing  her.  Nor  did  the  motive  fail  to 
enlist  their  sympathy  to  the  utmost.  If  all  the  world 
loves  a  lover,  all  men  having  the  best  virile  instinct 
will  fight  for  a  lover's  cause.  Both  Kenton  and  Oncle 
Jazon  were  enthusiastic;  they  wanted  nothing  better 
than  an  opportunity  to  aid  in  rescuing  any  girl  who  had 


In  the  Wilderness  231 

shown  so  much  patriotism  and  pluck.  But  Oncle  Jazon 
was  fond  of  Alice,  and  Beverley's  story  affected  him 
peculiarly  on  her  account. 

"They's  one  question  I'm  a  goin'  to  put  to  ye,  young 
man,"  he  said,  after  he  had  heard  everything  and  they 
had  talked  it  all  over,  "an'  I  want  ye  to  answer  it 
straight  as  a  bullet  f'om  yer  gun." 

"Of  course,  Jazon,  go  ahead,"  said  Beverley.  rtl 
shall  be  glad  to  answer."  But  his  mind  was  far  away 
with  the  gold-haired  maiden  in  Hamilton's  prison.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"Air  ye  expectin'  to  marry  Alice  Roussillon?" 

The  three  men  were  at  the  moment  eating  the  well 
broiled  venison.  Oncle  Jazon's  puckered  lips  and  chin 
were  dripping  with  the  fragrant  grease  and  juice, 
which  also  flowed  down  his  sinewy,  claw-like  fingers. 
Overhead  in  the  bare  tops  of  the  scrub  oaks  that  cov 
ered  the  prairie  oasis,  the  February  wind  sang  a  shrill 
and  doleful  song. 

Beverley  started  as  if  a  blow  had  been  aimed  at  him. 
Oncle  Jazon's  question,  indeed,  was  a  blow  as  unex 
pected  as  it  was  direct  and  powerful. 

"I  know  it's  poo'ty  p'inted,"  the  old  man  added  after 
a  short  pause,  "an'  ye  may  think  'at  I  ain't  got  no 
business  askin'  it;  but  I  have.  That  leetle  gal's  a  pet 
o'  mine,  an'  I'm  a  lookin'  after  her,  an'  expectin'  to  see 
'at  she's  not  bothered  by  nobody  who's  not  goin'  to  do 
right  by  her.  Marryin'  is  a  mighty  good  thing, 
bat " 

"What  do  ye  know  about  matrimony,  ye  old  raw- 
headed  bachelor?"  demanded  Kenton,  who  felt  im- 


232          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

pelled  to  relieve  Beverley  of  the  embarrassment  of  an 
answer.  "Ye  wouldn't  know  a  wife  from  a  sack  o' 
meal!" 

"Now  don't  git  too  peart  an'  fast,  Si  Kenton,"  cried 
Oncle  Jazon,  glaring  truculently  at  his  friend,  but  at 
the  same  time  showing  a  dry  smile  that  seemed  to  be 
hopelessly  entangled  in  criss-cross  wrinkles.  "Who  told 
ye  I  was  a  bach 'lor?  Not  by  a  big  jump.  I've  been 
married  mighty  nigh  on  to  twenty  times  in  my  day. 
Mos'ly  Injuns,  o'  course;  but  a  squaw's  a  wife  w'en  ye 
marries  her,  an'  I  know  how  it  hurts  a  gal  to  be  dis- 
'p'inted  in  sich  a  matter.  That's  w'y  I  put  the  ques 
tion  I  did.  I'm  not  goin'  to  let  no  man  give  sorry  to 
that  little  Roussillon  gal;  an'  so  ye've  got  my  say. 
Ye  seed  her  raise  thet  flag  on  the  fort,  Lieutenant 
Beverley,  an'  ye  seed  her  take  it  down  an'  git  away 
wi'  it.  You  know  'at  she  deserves  nothin'  but  the  best ; 
an'  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  she's  got  to  have  it,  or  I'm  a 
goin'  to  know  several  reasons  why.  Thet's  what  made 
me  put  the  question  straight  to  ye,  young  man,  an'  I 
expects  a  straight  answer." 

Beverley's  face  paled;  but  not  with  anger-  He 
grasped  one  of  Oncle  Jazon's  greasy  hands  and  gave 
it  such  a  squeeze  that  the  old  fellow  grimaced  pain 
fully. 

"Thank  you,  Oncle  Jazon,  thank  you !"  he  said,  with 
a  peculiar  husky  burr  in  his  voice.  "Alice  will  never 
suffer  if  I  can  help  it.  Let  the  subject  drop  now,  my 
friend,  until  we  have  saved  her  from  the  hands  of 
Hamilton."  In  the  power  of  his  emotion  he  continued 


In  the  Wilderness  233 

to  grip  the  old  man's  hand  with  increasing  severity  of 
pressure. 

"Ventrebleu!  let  go!  Needn't  smash  a  feller's  fin 
gers  'bout  it !"  screeched  Oncle  Jazon.  "I  can't  shoot 
wo'th  a  cent,  nohow,  an'  ef  ye  cripple  up  my  trigger- 
finger " 

Kenton  had  been  peeping  under  the  low-hanging 
scrub-oak  boughs  while  Oncle  Jazon  was  speaking 
these  last  words ;  and  now  he  suddenly  interrupted : 

"The  devil !  look  yonder !"  he  growled  out  in  start 
ling  tone.  "Injuns!" 

It  was  a  sharp  snap  of  the  conversation's  thread, 
and  at  the  same  time  our  three  friends  realized  that 
they  had  been  careless  in  not  keeping  a  better  look 
out.  They  let  fall  the  meat  they  had  not  yet  finished 
eating  and  seized  their  guns. 

Five  or  six  dark  forms  were  moving  toward  them 
across  a  little  point  of  the  prairie  that  cut  into  the  wood 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 

"Yander's  more  of  'em,"  said  Oncle  Jazon,  as  if  not 
in  the  least  concerned,  wagging  his  head  in  an  opposite 
direction,  from  which  another  squad  was  approaching. 

That  he  duly  appreciated  the  situation  appeared 
only  in  the  celerity  with  which  he  acted. 

Kenton  at  once  assumed  conrmand,  and  his  com 
panions  felt  his  perfect  fitness.  There  was  no  doubt 
from  the  first  as  to  what  the  Indians  meant ;  but  even 
if  there  had  been  it  would  have  soon  vanished;  for  in 
less  than  three  minutes  twenty-one  savages  were 
swiftly  and  silently  forming  a  circle  inclosing  the  spot 
where  the  three  white  men,  who  had  covered  them* 


234        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

selves  as  best  they  could  with  trees,  waited  in  grim 
steadiness  for  the  worst. 

Quite  beyond  gunshot  range,  but  near  enough  for 
Oncle  Jazon  to  recognize  Long-Hair  as  their  leader, 
the  Indians  halted  and  began  making  signs  to  one 
another  all  round  the  line.  Evidently  they  dreaded  to 
test  the  marksmanship  of  such  riflemen  as  they  knew 
most  border  men  to  be.  Indeed,  Long-Hair  had  per 
sonal  knowledge  of  what  might  certainly  be  expected 
from  both  Kenton  and  Oncle  Jazon;  they  were  terri 
ble  when  out  for  fight ;  the  red  warriors  from  Georgia 
to  the  great  lakes  had  heard  of  them;  their  names 
smacked  of  tragedy.  Nor  was  Beverley  without  fame 
among  Long-Hair's  followers,  who  had  listened  to 
the  story  of  his  fighting  qualities,  brought  to  Vin 
cennes  by  the  two  survivors  of  the  scouting  party  so 
cleverly  defeated  by  him. 

"The  liver-colored  cowards,"  said  Kenton,  "are 
af eared  of  us  in  a  shootin'-match ;  they  know  that  a 
lot  of  'em  would  have  to  die  if  they  should  undertake 
an  open  fight  with  us.  It's  some  sort  of  a  sneakin' 
game  they  are  studyin'  about  just  now." 

"I'm  a  gittin'  mos'  too  ole  to  shoot  wo'th  a  cent," 
said  Oncle  Jazon,  "but  I'd  give  half  o'  my  scalp  ef  thet 
Long-Hair  would  come  clost  enough  fo'  -me  to  git  a 
bead  onto  his  lef  eye.  It's  tol'ble  plain  'at  we're  gone 
goslins  this  time,  I'm  thinkin';  still  it'd  be  mighty  sat- 
isfyin'  if  I  could  plug  out  a  lef  eye  or  two  'fore  I  go." 

Beverley  was  silent;  the  words  of  his  companions 
were  heard  by  him,  but  not  noticed.  Nothing  inter 
ested  him  save  the  thought  of  escaping  and  making 


In  the  Wilderness  235 

his  way  to  Clark.  To  fail  meant  infinitely  more  than 
death,  of  which  he  had  as  small  fear  as  most  brave 
men,  and  to  succeed  meant  everything  that  life  could 
offer.  So,  in  the  unlimited  selfishness  of  love,  he  did 
not  take  his  companions  into  account. 

The  three  stood  in  a  close-set  clump  of  four  or  five 
scrub  oaks  at  the  highest  point  of  a  thinly  wooded 
knoll  that  sloped  down  in  all  directions  to  the  prairie. 
Their  view  was  wide,  but  in  places  obstructed  by  the 
trees. 

"Men,"  said  Kenton,  after  a  thoughtful  and  watch 
ful  silence,  "the  thing  looks  kind  o'  squally  for  us.  I 
don't  see  much  of  a  chance  to  get  out  of  this  alive ;  but 
we've  got  to  try." 

He  showed  by  the  density  of  his  voice  and  a  certain 
gray  film  in  his  face  that  he  felt  the  awful  gravity  of 
the  situation;  but  he  was  calm  and  not  a  muscle  quiv 
ered. 

"They's  jes'  two  chances  for  us,"  said  Oncle  Jazon, 
"an'  them's  as  slim  as  a  broom  straw.  We've  got  to 
stan'  here  an'  fight  it  out,  or  wait  till  night  an'  sneak 
through  atween  'em  an'  run  for  it." 

"I  don't  see  any  hope  o'  sneakin'  through  the  line," 
observed  Kenton.  "It's  not  goin'  to  be  dark  to 
night." 

"Wa-a-1,"  Oncle  Jazon  drawled  nonchalantly  while 
he  took  in  a  quid  of  tobacco,  "I've  been  into  tighter 
squeezes  'an  this,  many  a  time,  an'  I  got  out,  too." 

"Likely  enough,"  said  Kenton,  still  reflecting  while 
his  eyes  roamed  around  the  circle  of  savages. 

"I  fit  the  skunks  in  Ferginny  'fore  you's  thought  of, 


236          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Si  Kenton,  an'  down  in  Car'lina  in  them  hills.  If  yc 
think  I'm  a  goin*  to  be  scalped  where  they  ain't  no 
scalp,  'ithout  tryin'  a  few  dodges,  yer  a  dad  dasteder 
fool  an'  I  used  to  think  ye  was,  an'  that's  makin'  a  big 
compliment  to  ye." 

"Well,  we  don't  have  to  argy  this  question,  Onclej 
Jazon;  they're  a  gittin'  ready  to  run  in  upon  us,  and 
we've  got  to  fight.  I  say,  Beverley,  are  ye  ready  for 
fast  shootin'?  Have  ye  got  a  plenty  of  bullets?" 

"Yes,  Roussillon  gave  me  a  hundred.  Do  you 
think " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  yell  that  leaped  from  sav 
age  mouth  to  mouth  all  round  the  circle,  and  then  the 
charge  began. 

"Steady,  now,"  growled  Kenton,  "let's  not  be  in  a 
hurry.  Wait  till  they  come  nigh  enough  to  hit  'em 
before  we  shoot." 

The  time  was  short ;  for  the  Indians  came  on  at  al 
most  race-horse  speed. 

Oncle  Jazon  fired  first,  the  long,  keen  crack  of  his 
small-bore  rifle  splitting  the  air  with  a  suggestion  of 
vicious  energy,  and  a  lithe  young  warrior,  who  was 
outstripping  all  his  fellows,  leaped  high  and  fell 
paralyzed. 

"Can't  shoot  wo'th  a  cent,"  muttered  the  old  man, 
deftly  beginning  to  reload  his  gun  the  while;  "but  I 
jes'  happened  to  hit  that  buck.  He'll  never  git  my 
scalp,  thet's  sartin  an'  sure." 

Beverley  and  Kenton  each  likewise  dropped  an  In 
dian  ;  but  the  shots  did  not  even  check  the  rush.  Long- 
Hair  had  planned  to  capture  his  prey,  not  kill  it.  Every 


In  the  Wilderness  237 

savage  had  his  orders  to  take  the  white  men   alive; 
Hamilton's  larger  reward  depended  on  this. 

Right  on  they  came,  as  fast  as  their  nimble  legs  could 
carry  them,  yelling  like  demons ;  and  they  reached  the 
grove  before  the  three  white  men  could  reload  their 
guns.  Then  every  warrior  took  cover  behind  a  tree 
and  began  scrambling  forward  from  bole  to  bole,  thus 
approaching  rapidly  without  much  exposure. 

"Our  'taters  is  roasted  brown,"  muttered  Oncle 
Jazon.  He  crossed  himself.  Possibly  he  prayed ;  but 
he  was  priming  his  old  gun  the  next  instant. 

Kenton  fired  again,  making  a  hurried  and  ineffectual 
attempt  to  stop  the  nearest  warrior,  who  saved  himself 
by  quickly  skipping  behind  a  tree.  Beverley's  gun 
snapped,  the  flint  failing  to  make  fire ;  but  Oncle  Jazon 
bored  a  little  hole  through  the  head  of  the  Indian 
nearest  him ;  and  then  the  final  rush  was  made  from 
every  direction. 

A  struggle  ensued,  which  for  desperate  energy  has 
probably  never  been  surpassed.  Like  three  lions  at 
bay,  the  white  men  met  the  shock,  and  lion-like  they 
fought  in  the  midst  of  seventeen  stalwart  and  deter 
mined  savages. 

"Don't  kill  them,  take  them  alive ;  throw  them  down 
and  hold  them!"  was  Long-Hair's  order  loudly  shouted 
in  the  tongue  of  his  tribe. 

Both  Kenton  and  Jazon  understood  every  word  and 
knew  the  significance  of  such  a  command  from  the 
leader.  It  naturally  came  into  Kenton's  mind  that 
Hamilton  had  been  informed  of  his  visit  to  Vincennes 
and  had  offered  a  reward  for  his  capture.  This  being 


238        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

true,  death  as  a  spy  would  be  the  certain  result  if  he 
were  taken  back.  He  might  as  well  die  now.  As  for 
Beverley,  he  thought  only  of  Alice,  yonder  as  he  had 
left  her,  a  prisoner  in  Hamilton's  hands.  Oncle  Jazon, 
if  he  thought  at  all,  probably  considered  nothing  but 
present  escape,  though  he  prayed  audibly  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  even  while  he  lay  helpless  upon  the 
ground,  pinned  down  by  the  weight  of  an  enormous 
Indian.  He  could  not  move  any  part  of  himself,  save 
his  lips,  and  these  mechanically  put  forth  the  wheez 
ing  supplication. 

Beverley  and  Kenton,  being  young  and  powerful, 
were  not  so  easily  mastered.  For  a  while,  indeed,  they 
appeared  to  be  more  than  holding  their  own.  They 
time  and  time  again  scattered  the  entire  crowd  by  the 
violence  of  their  muscular  efforts;  and  after  it  had 
finally  closed  in  upon  them  in  a  solid  body  they  swayed 
and  swung  it  back  and  forth  and  round  and  round  until 
the  writhing,  savage  mass  looked  as  if  caught  in  the 
vortex  of  a  whirlwind.  But  such  tremendous  exer 
tion  could  not  last  long.  Eight  to  one  made  too  great 
a  difference  between  the  contending  parties,  and  the 
only  possible  conclusion  of  the  struggle  soon  came. 
Seized  upon  by  desperate,  clinging,  wolf-like  assail 
ants,  the  white  men  felt  their  arms,  legs  and  bodies 
weighted  down  and  their  strength  fast  going. 

Kenton  fell  next  after  Oncle  Jazon,  and  was  soon 
tightly  bound  with  rawhide  thongs.  He  lay  on  his 
back  panting  and  utterly  exhausted,  while  Beverley 
still  kept  up  the  unequal  fight. 

T-ong-Hair  sprang  in  at  the  last  moment  to  make 


In  the  Wilderness  239 

doubly  certain  the  securing  of  his  most  important  cap- 
tire.  He  flung  his  long  and  powerful  arms  aroand 
Beverley  from  behind  and  made  a  great  effort  to  throw 
him  upon  the  ground.  The  young  man,  feeling  this 
fresh  and  vigorous  clasp,  turned  himself  about  to  put 
forth  one  more  mighty  spurt  of  power.  He  lifted  the 
stalwart  Indian  bodily  and  dashed  him  headlong 
against  the  buttressed  root  of  a  tree  half  a  rod  distant, 
breaking  the  smaller  bone  of  his  left  fore-arm  and  well- 
nigh  knocking  him  senseless. 

It  was  a  fine  exhibition  of  manly  strength ;  but  there 
could  be  nothing  gained  by  it.  A  blow  on  the  back  of 
his  head  the  next  instant  stretched  Beverley  face  down 
ward  and  unconscious  on  the  ground.  The  savages 
turned  him  over  and  looked  satisfied  when  they  found 
that  he  was  not  dead.  They  bound  him  with  even 
greater  care  than  they  had  shown  in  securing  the 
others,  while  Long-Hair  stood  by  stolidly  looking  on, 
meantime  supporting  his  broken  fore-arm  in  his  hand. 

"Ugh !  dog !"  he  grunted,  and  gave  Beverley  a  kick 
in  the  side.  Then  turning  a  fiendish  stare  upon  Oncle 
Jazon  he  proceeded  to  deliver  against  his  old,  dry  ribs 
three  or  four  like  contributions  with  resounding  effect. 
"Polecat!  Little  old  greasy  woman!"  he  snarled, 
"make  good  fire  for  warrior  to  dance  by !"  Kenton  also 
received  his  full  share  of  the  kicks  and  verbal  abuse, 
after  which  Long-Hair  gave  orders  for  fires  to  be  built. 
Then  he  looked  to  his  hurt  arm  and  had  the  bone  set 
and  bandaged,  never  so  much  as  wincing  the  while. 

It  was  soon  apparent  that  the  Indians  purposed  to 
celebrate  their  successful  enterprise  with  a  feast.  They 


240         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

cooked  a  large  amount  of  buffalo  steak ;  then,  each  with 
his  hands  full  of  the  savory  meat,  they  began  to  dance 
around  the  fires,  droning  meantime  an  atrociously  re- 
pellant  chant. 

"They're  a  'spectin'  to  hev  a  leetle  bit  o'  fun  outen 
us,"  muttered  Oncle  Jazon  to  Beverley,  who  lay  near 
him.  "I  onderstan'  what  they're  up  to,  dad  dast  'em ! 
More'n  forty  years  ago,  in  Ca'lina,  they  put  me  an' 
Jim  Hipes  through  the  ga'ntlet,  an'  arter  thet,  in  Kain- 
tuck,  me  an'  Si  Kenton  tuck  the  run.  Hi,  there,  Si! 
where  air  ye  ?" 

"Shut  yer  fool  mouth,"  Kenton  growled  under  his 
breath.  "Ye'll  have  that  Injun  a  kickin'  our  lights 
out  of  us  again." 

Oncle  Jazon  winked  at  the  gray  sky  and  puckered 
his  mouth  so  that  it  looked  like  a  nutgall  on  an  old,  dry 
leaf. 

"What's  the  diff'ence?"  he  demanded.  "I'd  jest  as 
soon  be  kicked  now  as  arter  while;  it's  got  to  come 
anyhow." 

Kenton  made  no  response.  The  thongs  were  tortur 
ing  his  arms  and  legs.  Beverley  was  silent,  but  con 
sciousness  had  returned,  and  with  it  a  sense  of  de 
spair.  All  three  of  the  prisoners  lay  face  upward  quite 
unable  to  move,  knowing  full  well  that  a  terrible  ordeal 
awaited  them.  Oncle  Jazon's  grim  humor  could  not 
be  quenched,  even  by  the  galling  agony  of  the  thongs 
that  buried  themselves  in  the  flesh,  and  the  anticipa 
tion  of  torture  beside  which  death  would  seem  a 
luxury. 


In  the  Wilderness  241 

"Yap!  Long-Hair,  how's  yer  arm?"  he  called 
jeeringly.  "Feels  pooty  good,  hay?" 

Long-Hair,  who  was  not  joining  in  the  dance  and 
song,  turned  when  he  heard  these  taunting  words,  and 
mistaking  whence  they  came,  went  to  Beverley's  side 
and  kicked  him  again  and  again. 

Oncle  Jazon  heard  the  loud  blows,  and  considered 
the  incident  a  remarkably  good  joke. 

"He,  he,  he!"  he  snickered,  as  soon  as  Long-Hair 
walked  away  again.  "I  does  the  talkin'  an'  somebody 
else  gits  the  thumpin'!  He,  he,  he!  I  always  was 
devilish  lucky.  Them  kicks  was  good  solid  jolts, 
wasn't  they,  Lieutenant  ?  Sounded  like  they  was.  He, 
he,  he!" 

Beverley  gave  no  heed  to  Oncle  Jazon's  exasperating 
pleasantry ;  but  Kenton,  sorely  chafing  under  the  press 
ure  of  his  bonds,  could  not  refrain  from  making  retort 
in  kind. 

"I'd  give  ye  one  poundin'  that  ye'd  remember,  Emile 
Jazon,  if  I  could  get  to  ye,  ye  old  twisted-face,  peeled- 
headed,  crooked-mouthed,  aggravatin'  scamp!"  he  ex 
claimed,  not  thinking  how  high  his  naturally  strong 
voice  was  lifted.  "I  can  stand  any  fool  but  a  damn 
fool!" 

Long-Hair  heard  the  concluding  epithet  and  under* 
'stood  its  meaning.  Moreover,  he  thought  himself  the 
target  at  which  it  was  so  energetically  launched. 
Wherefore  he  promptly  turned  back  and  gave  Kenton 
a  kicking  that  made  his  body  resound  not  unlike  a 
drum. 

And  here  it  was  that  Oncle  Jazon  overreached  him- 


242         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

self.  He  was  so  delighted  at  Kenton's  luck  that  he 
broke  forth  giggling  and  thereby  drew  against  his  own 
ribs  a  considerable  improvement  of  Long-Hair's  pedal 
applications. 

"Ventrebleu!"  whined  the  old  man,  when  the  Indian 
had  gone  away  again.  "Holy  Mary!  Jee-ru-sa-lem ! 
They's  nary  bone  o'  me  left  'at's  not  splintered  as  fine 
as  toothpickers !  S'pose  yer  satisfied  now,  ain't  ye,  Si 
Kenton?  Ef  ye  ain't  I'm  shore  to  satisfy  ye  the  fust 
time  I  git  a  chance  at  ye,  ye  blab-mouthed  eejit !" 

Before  this  conversation  was  ended  a  rain  began  to 
fall,  and  it  rapidly  thickened  from  a  desultory  shower 
to  a  roaring  downpour  that  effectually  quenched  not 
only  the  fires  around  which  the  savages  were  dancing, 
but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  dancers  as  well.  During  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  and  all  night  long  the  fall  was 
incessant,  accompanied  by  a  cold,  panting,  wailing 
southwest  wind. 

Beverley  lay  on  the  ground,  face  upward,  the  raw 
hide  strings  torturing  his  limbs,  the  chill  of  cold  water 
searching  his  bones.  He  could  see  nothing  but  the 
dim,  strange  canopy  of  flying  rain,  against  which  the 
bare  boughs  of  the  scrub  oaks  were  vaguely  outlined ; 
he  could  hear  nothing  but  the  cry  of  the  wind  and  the 
swash  of  the  water  which  fell  upon  him  and  ran  under 
him,  bubbling  and  gurgling  as  if  fiendishly  exultant. 

The  night  dragged  on  through  its  terrible  length, 
dealing  out  its  indescribable  horrors,  and  at  last  morn- 
kg  arrived,  with  a  stingy  and  uncertain  gift  of  light 
slowly  increasing  until  the  dripping  trees  appeared  for- 


In  the  Wilderness  243 

lornly  gray  and  brown  against  clouds  now  breaking 
into  masses  that  gave  but  little  rain. 

Beverley  lived  through  the  awful  trial  and  even  had 
the  hardihood  to  brighten  inwardly  with  the  first  flash 
of  sunlight  that  shot  through  a  cloud-crack  on  the 
eastern  horizon.  He  thought  of  Alice,  as  he  had  done 
all  night ;  but  now  the  thought  partook  somehow  of  the 
glow  yonder  above  old  Vincennes,  although  he  could 
only  see  its  reflection. 

There  was  great  stir  among  the  Indians.  Long- Hair 
stalked  about  scrutinizing  the  ground.  Beverley  saw 
him  come  near  time  and  again  with  a  hideous,  inquir 
ing  scowl  on  his  face.  Grunts  and  laconic  exclamations 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  presently  the  import 
of  it  all  could  not  be  mistaken.  Kenton  and  Jazon  were 
gone — had  escaped  during  the  night — and  the  rain 
had  completely  obliterated  their  trackr 

The  Indians  were  furious.  Long-Hair  sent  out 
picked  parties  of  his  best  scouts  with  orders  to  scour 
the  country  in  all  directions,  keeping  vdth  himself  a 
few  of  the  older  warriors.  Beverley  was  fed  what  he 
would  eat  of  venison,  and  Long-Hair  made  him  under 
stand  that  he  would  have  to  suffer  some  terrible  pun 
ishment  on  account  of  the  action  of  his  companions. 

Late  in  the  day  the  scouts  straggled  back  with  the 
report  that  no  track  or  sign  of  the  fugitives  had  been 
discovered,  and  immediately  a  consultation  was  held. 
Most  of  the  warriors,  including  all  of  the  young  bucks, 
demanded  a  torture  entertainment  as  compensation  for 
their  exertions  and  the  unexpected  loss  of  their  own 
prisoners;  for  it  had  been  agreed  that  Beverley  be- 


244        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

longed  exclusively  to  Long-Hair,  who  objected  to  any 
thing  which  might  deprive  him  of  the  great  reward 
offered  by  Hamilton  for  the  prisoner  if  brought  to 
him  alive. 

In  the  end  it  was  agreed  that  Beverley  should  be 
made  to  run  the  gauntlet,  provided  that  no  deadly 
weapons  were  used  upon  him  during  the  ordeal. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  PRISONER   OF   LOVE 

Alice  put  on  her  warmest  clothes  and  followed  Cap 
tain  Farnsworth  to  the  fort,  realizing  that  no  pleasant 
experience  awaited  her.  The  wind  and  rain  still  pre 
vailed  when  they  were  ready  to  set  forth,  and,  although 
it  was  not  extremely  cold,  a  searching  chill  went  with 
every  throb  that  marked  the  storm's  waves.  No  lights 
shone  in  the  village  houses.  Overhead  a  gray  gloom 
covered  stars  and  sky,  making  the  darkness  in  the 
watery  streets  seem  densely  black.  Farnsworth  offered 
Alice  his  arm,  but  she  did  not  accept  it. 

"I  know  the  way  better  than  you  do/'  she  said. 
"Come  on,  and  don't  be  afraid  that  I  am  going  to  run. 
I  shall  not  play  any  trick  on  you." 

"Very  well,  Mademoiselle,  as  you  like.    I  trust  you." 

He  followed  her  from  the  house.  He  was  so  filled 
with  the  bitterness  of  what  he  was  doing  that  he  car 
ried  her  sword  in  his  hand  all  the  way  to  the  fort,  quite 
unaware  that  its  point  often  touched  her  dress  so  that 
she  plainly  felt  it.  Indeed,  she  thought  he  was  using 
that  ruffianly  and  dangerous  means  of  keeping  pace 
with  her.  He  had  sent  the  patrol  on  its  rounds,  taking 
upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  delivering  her  to 
Hamilton.  She  almost  ran,  urged  by  the  strange  ex 
citement  that  burned  in  her  heart,  and  he  followed 
somewhat  awkwardly,  stumbling  over  the  unfamiliar 
way  in  the  rain  and  darkness. 

245 


246         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

At  every  step  he  was  wishing  that  she  would  escape 
from  him.  Coarse  as  his  nature  was  and  distorted  by 
hardening  experiences,  it  was  rooted  in  good  English 
honesty  and  imbued  with  a  chivalric  spirit.  When, 
as  happened  too  often,  he  fell  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  the  bad  in  him  promptly  came  uppermost;  but 
at  all  other  times  his  better  traits  made  him  a  good 
fellow  to  meet,  genial,  polite,  generous,  and  inclined 
to  recognize  the  finer  sentiments  of  manliness.  To 
march  into  his  commander's  presence  with  Alice  as  his 
prisoner  lacked  everything  of  agreeing  with  his  taste; 
yet  he  had  not  been  willing  to  give  her  over  into  the 
hands  of  the  patrol.  If  his  regard  for  military  obliga 
tion  had  not  been  exceptionally  strong,  even  for  an 
English  soldier,  he  would  have  given  way  to  the 
temptation  of  taking  her  to  some  place  of  hiding  and 
safety,  instead  of  brutally  subjecting  her  to  Hamilton's 
harsh  judgment.  He  anticipated  a  trying  experience 
for  her  on  account  of  this  new  transgression. 

They  hastened  along  until  a  lantern  in  the  fort  shot 
a  hazy  gleam  upon  them. 

"Stop  a  moment,  Mademoiselle,"  Farnsworth  called. 
"I  say,  Miss  Roussillon,  stop  a  moment,  please." 

Alice  halted  and  turned  facing  him  so  short  and  so 
suddenly  that  the  rapier  in  his  hand  pricked  through 
her  wraps  and  slightly  scratched  her  arm. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  she  demanded,  thinking 
that  he  had  thrust  purposely.  "Do  I  deserve  this  bru 
tality?" 

"You  mistake  me,   Miss   Roussillon.     I  cannot  be 


"Steady,"  growled  Kenton  "wait  untu  they  come  nigh  snough"    p.  236 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  247 

brutal  to  you  now.  Do  not  fear  me ;  I  only  had  a  word 
to  say." 

"Oh,  you  deem  it  very  polite  and  gentle  to  jab  me 
with  your  sword,  do  you?  If  I  had  one  in  my  hand 
you  would  not  dare  try  such  a  thing,  and  you  know  it 
very  well." 

He  was  amazed,  not  knowing  that  the  sword-point 
had  touched  her.  He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  there 
was  a  flash  in  her  voice  that  startled  him  with  its  indig 
nant  contempt  and  resentment. 

"What  are  you  saying,  Miss  Roussillon?  I  don't 
understand  you.  When  did  I  ever — when  did  I  jab  you 
with  my  sword  ?  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"This  moment,  sir,  you  did,  and  you  know  you  did. 
My  arm  is  bleeding  now." 

She  spoke  rapidly  in  French;  but  he  caught  lier 
meaning,  and  for  the  first  became  aware  of  the  rapier 
in  his  hand.  Even  then  its  point  was  toward  her  and 
very  near  her  breast.  He  lowered  it  instantly  while 
the  truth  rushed  into  his  mind. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  murmured,  his  words  barely  audi 
ble  in  the  tumult  of  wind  and  rain,  but  charged  with 
the  intensest  feeling. 

"Forgive  me ;  I  did  not  know — it  was  an  accident — 
I  could  not  do  such  a  thing  purposely.  Believe  me, 
believe  me,  Miss  Roussillon.  I  did  not  mean  it." 

She  stood  facing  him,  trying  to  look  right  into  his 
eyes.  A  quality  in  his  voice  had  checked  her  hot  anger. 
She  could  only  see  his  dim  outlines  in  the  dull  gleam 
from  the  fort's  lantern.  He  seemed  to  be  forlornly 
wretched. 


248         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"I  should  like  to  believe  you,"  she  presently  said, 
"but  I  cannot.  You  English  are  all,  all  despicable, 
mean,  vile!" 

She  was  remembering  the  young  officer  who  had 
assaulted  her  with  his  sword  in  the  house  a  while  ago. 
And  (what  a  strange  thing  the  human  brain  is!)  she 
at  the  same  time  comforted  herself  with  the  further 
thought  that  Beverley  would  never,  never,  be  guilty 
of  rudeness  to  a  woman. 

"Some  time  you  shall  not  say  that,"  Farnsworth  re 
sponded.  "I  asked  you  to  stop  a  moment  that  I  might 
beg  you  to  believe  how  wretchedly  sorry  I  am  for  what 
I  am  doing.  But  you  cannot  understand  me  now. 
Are  you  really  hurt,  Miss  Roussillon?  I  assure  you 
that  it  was  purely  accidental." 

"My  hurt  is  nothing,"  she  said. 

"I  am  very  glad." 

"Well,  then,  shall  we  go  on  to  the  fort?" 

"You  may  go  where  you  please,  Mademoiselle." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  without  an  an 
swering  word  walked  straight  to  the  lantern  that  hung 
by  the  gate  of  the  stockade,  where  a  sentinel  tramped 
to  and  fro.  A  few  moments  later  Captain  Farnsworth 
presented  her  to  Hamilton,  who  had  been  called  from 
his  bed  when  the  news  of  the  trouble  at  Roussillon 
place  reached  the  fort. 

"So  you've  been  raising  hell  again,  have  you,  Miss  ?" 
he  growled,  with  an  ugly  frown  darkening  his  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Farnsworth,  "Miss  Rous 
sillon  was  not  to  blame  for " 

"In  your  eyes  she'd  not  be  to  blame,   sir,  if   she 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  249 

burned  up  the  fort  and  all  of  us  in  it,"  Hamilton 
gruffly  interrupted.  "Miss,  what  have  you  been  doing  ? 
What  are  you  here  for  ?  Captain  Farnsworth,  you  will 
please  state  the  particulars  of  the  trouble  that  I  have 
just  heard  about.  And  I  may  as  well  notify  you  that 
I  wish  to  hear  no  special  lover's  pleading  in  this  girl's 
behalf." 

Farnsworth's  face  whitened  with  anger;  he  bit  his 
lip  and  a  shiver  ran  through  his  frame;  but  he  had  to 
conquer  the  passion.  In  a  few  words,  blunt  and  direct 
as  musket-balls,  he  told  all  the  circumstances  of  what 
had  taken  place,  making  no  concealments  to  favor 
Alice,  but  boldly  blaming  the  officer  of  the  patrol,  Lieu 
tenant  Barlow,  for  losing  his  head  and  attacking  a 
young  girl  in  her  own  home. 

"I  will  hear  from  Barlow,"  said  Hamilton,  after 
listening  attentively  to  the  story.  "But  take  this  girl 
and  confine  her.  Show  her  no  favors.  I  hold  you  re 
sponsible  for  her  until  to-morrow  morning.  You  can 
retire." 

There  was  no  room  for  discussion.  Farnsworth  sa 
luted  and  turned  to  Alice. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  gently  said. 

Hamilton  looked  after  them  as  they  went  out  of  his 
room,  a  curious  smile  playing  around  his  firmly  set 
lips. 

"She's  the  most  beautiful  vixen  that  I  ever  saw," 
he  thought.  "She  doesn't  look  to  be  a  French  girl, 
either — decidedly  English."  He  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  then  laughed  dryly.  "Farnsworth's  as  crazy  as 
can  be,  the  beggar;  in  love  with  her  so  deep  that  he 


250         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

can't  see  out.  By  Jove,  she  is  a  beauty!  Never  saw 
such  eyes.  And  plucky  to  beat  the  devil.  I'll  bet  my 
head  Barlow'll  be  daft  about  her  next !" 

Still,  notwithstanding  the  lightness  of  his  inward 
comments,  Hamilton  regarded  the  incident  as  rather 
serious.  He  knew  that  the  French  inhabitants  were 
secretly  his  bitter  enemies,  yet  probably  willing,  if  he 
would  humor  their  peculiar  social,  domestic  and  com 
mercial  prejudices,  to  refrain  from  active  hostilities, 
and  even  to  aid  him  in  furnishing  his  garrison  with  a 
large  amount  of  needed  supplies.  The  danger  just  now 
was  twofold ;  his  Indian  allies  were  deserting  him,  and 
a  flotilla  loaded  with  provisions  and  ammunition  from 
Detroit  had  failed  to  arrive.  He  might,  if  the  French 
rose  against  him  and  were  joined  by  the  Indians,  have 
great  difficulty  defending  the  fort.  It  was  clear  that 
M.  Roussillon  had  more  influence  with  both  Creoles 
and  savages  than  any  other  person  save  Father  Beret. 
Urgent  policy  dictated  that  these  two  men  should 
somehow  be  won  over.  But  to  do  this  it  would  be 
necessary  to  treat  Alice  in  such  a  way  that  her  arrest 
would  aid,  instead  of  operating  against  the  desired 
result, — a  thing  not  easy  to  manage. 

Hamilton  was  not  a  man  of  fine  scruples,  but  he 
may  have  been,  probably  was,  better  than  our 
American  historians  have  made  him  appear.  His 
besetting  weakness,  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he 
regarded  as  the  highest  flower  of  efficiency,  was  an 
uncontrollable  temper,  a  lack  of  fine  human  sympathy 
and  an  inability  to  forgive.  In  his  calmest  moments, 
when  prudence  appealed  to  him,  he  would  resolve  to 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  251 

use  diplomatic  means;  but  no  sooner  was  his  opinion 
questioned  or  his  purpose  opposed  than  anger  and  the 
thirst  for  revenge  overpowered  every  gentler  consid 
eration.  He  returned  to  his  bed  that  night  fully  re 
solved  upon  a  pleasant  and  successful  interview  with 
Alice  next  morning. 

Captain  Farnsworth  took  his  fair  prisoner  straight 
way  from  Hamilton's  presence  to  a  small  room  con 
nected  with  a  considerable  structure  in  a  distant  angle 
of  the  stockade.  Neither  he  nor  Alice  spoke  on  the 
way.  With  a  huge  wooden  key  he  unlocked  the  door 
and  stepped  aside  for  her  to  enter.  A  dim  lamp  was 
burning  within,  its  yellowish  light  flickering  over  the 
scant  furniture,  which  consisted  of  a  comfortable  bed, 
a  table  with  some  books  on  it,  three  chairs,  a  small 
looking-glass  on  the  wall,  a  guitar  and  some  articles 
of  men's  clothing  hanging  here  and  there.  A  heap  of 
dull  embers  smouldered  in  the  fireplace.  Alice  did 
not  falter  at  the  threshold,  but  promptly  entered  her 
prison. 

"I  hope  you  can  be  comfortable,"  said  Farnsworth 
in  a  low  tone.  "It's  the  best  I  can  give  you." 

"Thank  you,"  was  the  answer  spoken  quite  as  if  he 
had  handed  her  a  glass  of  water  or  picked  up  her 
handkerchief. 

He  held  the  door  a  moment,  while  she  stopped,  with 
her  back  toward  him,  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  then 
she  heard  him  close  and  lock  it.  The  air  was  almost 
too  warm  after  her  exposure  to  the  biting  wind  and 
cold  dashes  of  rain.  She  cast  off  her  outer  wraps  and 
stood  by  the  fireplace.  At  a  glance  she  comprehended 


252         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

that  the  place  was  not  the  one  she  had  formerly  occu 
pied  as  a  prisoner,  and  that  it  belonged  to  a  man.  A 
long  rifle  stood  in  a  corner,  a  bullet-nouch  and  powder- 
horn  hanging  on  a  projecting  hickory  ramrod;  a 
heavy  fur  top-coat  lay  across  one  of  the  chairs. 

Alice  felt  her  situation  bitterly  enough;  but  she 
was  not  of  the  stuff  that  turns  to  water  at  the  touch  of 
misfortune.  Pioneer  women  took  hardships  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  and  met  calamity  with  admirable  forti 
tude.  There  was  no  wringing  of  hands,  no  frantic 
wailing,  no  hollow,  despairing  groan.  While  life 
lasted  hope  flourished,  even  in  most  tragic  surround 
ings;  and  not  unfrequently  succor  came,  at  the  last 
verge  of  destruction,  as  the  fitting  reward  of  uncon 
querable  courage.  A  girl  like  Alice  must  be  accepted 
in  the  spirit  of  her  time  and  surroundings.  She  was 
born  amid  experiences  scarcely  credible  now,  and  bred 
in  an  area  and  an  atmosphere  of  incomparable  dangers. 
Naturally  she  accepted  conditions  of  terrible  import 
with  a  sang  froid  scarcely  possible  to  a  girl  of  our  day. 
She  did  not  cry,  she  did  not  sink  down  helpless  when 
she  found  herself  once  more  imprisoned  with  some 
uncertain  trial  before  her;  but  simply  knelt  and  re 
peated  the  Lord's  prayer,  then  went  to  bed  and  slept ; 
even  dreamed  the  dream  of  a  maid's  first  love. 

Meantime  Farnsworth,  who  had  given  Alice  his 
own  apartment,  took  what  rest  he  could  on  the  cold 
ground  under  a  leaky  shed  hard  by.  His  wound,  not 
yet  altogether  healed,  was  not  benefited  by  the  ex 
posure. 

In  due  time  next  morning  Hamilton  ordered  Alice 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  253 

brought  to  his  office,  and  when  she  appeared  he  was 
smiling  with  as  near  an  approach  to  affability  as  his 
disposition  would  permit.  He  rose  and  bowed  like  a 
courtier. 

"I  hope  you  rested  well,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  in 
his  best  French.  He  imagined  that  the  use  of  her 
language  would  be  agreeable  to  begin  with. 

The  moment  that  Alice  saw  him  wearing  that  shal 
low  veneering  of  pleasantness  on  his  never  prepossess 
ing  visage,  she  felt  a  mood  of  perversity  come  over  her. 
She,  too,  smiled,  and  he  mistook  her  expression  for 
one  of  reciprocal  amenity.  She  noticed  that  her  sword 
was  on  his  table. 

"I  am  sorry,  Monsieur,  that  I  cannot  say  as  much 
to  you,"  she  glibly  responded.  "If  you  lay  upon  a  bed 
of  needles  the  whole  night  through,  your  rest  was 
better  than  you  deserved.  My  own  sleep  was  quite 
refreshing,  thank  you." 

Instantly  Hamilton's  choler  rose.  He  tried  to  sup 
press  it  at  first ;  but  when  he  saw  Alice  actually  laugh 
ing,  and  Farnsworth  (who  had  brought  her  in)  biting 
his  lip  furiously  to  keep  from  adding  an  uproarious 
guffaw,  he  lost  all  hold  of  himself.  He  unconsciously 
picked  up  the  rapier  and  shook  it  till  its  blade  swished. 

"I  might  have  known  better  than  to  expect  decency 
from  a  wench  of  your  character,"  he  said.  "I  hoped 
to  do  you  a  favor;  but  I  see  that  you  are  not  capable 
of  accepting  kindness  politely." 

"I  am  sure,  Monsieur,  that  I  have  but  spoken  the 
truth  plainly  to  you.  You  would  not  have  me  do 
otherwise,  I  hope." 


254         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Her  voice,  absolutely  witching  in  its  softness,  fresh 
ness  and  suavity,  helped  the  assault  of  her  eyes,  while 
her  dimples  twinkled  and  her  hair  shone.  Hamilton 
felt  his  heart  move  strangely ;  but  he  could  not  forbear 
saying  in  English: 

"If  you  are  so  devilish  truthful,  Miss,  you  will  prob 
ably  tell  me  where  the  flag  is  that  you  stole  and  hid." 

It  was  always  the  missing  banner  that  came  to  mind 
when  he  saw  her. 

"Indeed  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  promptly 
replied.  "When  you  see  that  flag  again  you  will  be 
a  prisoner  and  I  will  wave  it  high  over  your  head." 

She  lifted  a  hand  as  she  spoke  and  made  the  mo 
tion  of  shaking  a  banner  above  him.  It  was  exaspera 
tion  sweetened  almost  to  delight  that  took  hold  of  the 
sturdy  Briton.  He  liked  pluck,  especially  in  a  woman ; 
all  the  more  if  she  was  beautiful.  Yet  the  very  fact 
that  he  felt  her  charm  falling  upon  him  set  him  hard 
against  her,  not  as  Hamilton  the  man,  but  as  Hamilton 
the  commander  at  Vincennes. 

"You  think  to  fling  yourself  upon  me  as  you  have 
upon  Captain  Farnsworth,"  he  said,  with  an  insulting 
leer  and  in  a  tone  of  prurient  innuendo.  "I  am  not  sus 
ceptible,  my  dear."  This  more  for  Farnsworth's 
benefit  than  to  insult  her,  albeit  he  was  not  in  a  mood 
to  care. 

"You  are  a  coward  and  a  liar !"  she  exclaimed,  her 
face  flushing  with  hot  shame.  "You  stand  here,"  she 
quickly  added,  turning  fiercely  upon  Farnsworth,  "and 
quietly  listen  to  such  words !  You,  too,  are  a  coward 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  255 

if  you  do  not  make  him  retract !  Oh,  you  English  are 
low  brutes!" 

Hamilton  laughed ;  but  Farnsworth  looked  dark  and 
troubled,  his  glance  going  back  and  forth  from  Alice 
to  his  commander,  as  if  another  word  would  cause 
him  to  do  something  terrible. 

"I  rather  think  I've  heard  all  that  I  care  to  hear  from 
you,  Miss,"  Hamilton  presently  said.  "Captain  Farns 
worth,  you  will  see  that  the  prisoner  is  confined  in  the 
proper  place,  which,  I  suggest  to  you,  is  not  your 
sleeping  quarters,  sir." 

"Colonel  Hamilton,"  said  Farnsworth  in  a  husky 
voice,  "I  slept  on  the  ground  under  a  shed  last  night 
in  order  that  Miss  Roussillon  might  be  somewhat  com 
fortable." 

"Humph!  Well,  see  that  you  do  not  do  it  again. 
This  girl  is  guilty  of  harboring  a  spy  and  resisting  a 
lawful  attempt  of  my  guards  to  capture  him.  Con 
fine  her  in  the  place  prepared  for  prisoners  and  see 
that  she  stays  there  until  I  am  ready  to  fix  her  punish 
ment." 

"There  is  no  place  fit  for  a  young  girl  to  stay  in," 
Farnsworth  ventured.  "She  can  have  no  comfort 
or " 

"Take  her  along,  sir ;  any  place  is  good  enough  for 
her  so  long  as  she  behaves  like  a " 

"Very  well,"  Farnsworth  bluntly  interrupted,  thus 
saving  Alice  the  stroke  of  a  vile  comparison.  "Come 
with  me,  please,  Miss  Roussillon." 

He  pulled  her  toward  the  door,  then  dropped  the 
arm  he  had  grasped  and  murmured  an  apology. 


256         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

She  followed  him  out,  holding  her  head  high.  No 
©ne  looking  on  would  have  suspected  that  a  sinking 
sensation  in  her  heart  made  it  difficult  for  her  to  walk, 
or  that  her  eyes,  shining  like  stars,  were  so  inwardly 
clouded  with  distress  that  she  saw  her  way  but  dimly. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Hamilton  when  Helm  a  few  min 
utes  later  entered  the  room  with  something  breezy 
to  say. 

"What's  up  now,  if  I  may  ask  ?"  the  jolly  American 
demanded.  "What's  this  I  hear  about  trouble  with  the 
French  women?  Have  they  begun  a  revolution?" 

"That  elephant,  Gaspard  Roussillon,  came  back  into 
town  last  night,"  said  Hamilton  sulkily. 

"Well,  he  went  out  again,  didn't  he  ?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"Stepped  on  somebody's  toe  first,  eh  ?" 

"The  guard  tried  to  capture  him,  and  that  girl  of 
his  wounded  Lieutenant  Barlow  in  the  neck  with  a 
sword.  Roussillon  fought  like  a  tiger  and  the  men 
swear  that  the  devil  himself  appeared  on  the  scene  to 
help  the  Frenchman  out." 

"Moral :  Be  generous  in  your  dealings  with  French 
men  and  Frenchwomen  and  so  get  the  devil  on  your 
side." 

"I've  got  the  girl  a  prisoner,  and  I  swear  to  you 
that  I'll  have  her  shot  this  time  if " 

"Why  not  shoot  her  yourself?  You  oughtn't  to  shirk 
a  dirty  job  like  that  and  force  it  upon  your  men." 

Hamilton  laughed  and  elevated  his  shoulders  as  if 
to  shake  off  an  annoying  load.  Just  then  a  young 
officer  with  a  white  bandage  around  his  neck  entered 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  2^7 

and  saluted.  He  was  a  small,  soft-haired,  blue-eyed 
man  of  reckless  bearing,  with  marks  of  dissipation 
sharply  cut  into  his  face.  He  saluted,  smiling  self 
consciously. 

"Well,  Barlow,"  said  Hamilton,  "the  kitten  scratched 
you,  did  she  ?" 

"Yes,  slightly,  and  I  don't  think  I've  been  treated 
fairly  in  the  matter,  sir." 

"How  so?" 

"I  stood  the  brunt  and  now  Captain  Farnsworth 
gets  the  prize."  He  twisted  his  mouth  in  mock  ex 
pression  of  maudlin  disappointment.  "I'm  always 
cheated  out  of  the  sweets.  I  never  get  anything  for 
gallant  conduct  on  the  field." 

"Poor  boy !  It  is  a  shame.  But  I  say,  Lieutenant, 
has  Roussillon  really  escaped,  or  is  he  hidden  some 
where  in  town  ?  Have  you  been  careful  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  Indians.  They  all  swear  by  these 
Frenchmen.  You  can't  get  any  help  from  them  against 
a  fellow  like  Roussillon.  In  fact  they  aid  him;  he's 
among  them  now." 

"Moral  again,"  Helm  interposed ;  "keep  on  the  good 
side  of  the  French!" 

"That's  sensible  talk,  sir,"  assented  Barlow. 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  Hamilton.  "You  might  as  we1! 
talk  of  keeping  on  the  good  side  of  the  American 
traitors — a  bloody  murrain  seize  the  whole  race !" 

"That's  what  I  say,"  chimed  in  the  Lieutenant,  with 
a  sly  look  at  Helm. 

"They  have  been  telling  me  a  cock-and-bull  story 
concerning  the  affair  at  the  Roussillon  cabin,"  Hamil- 


258         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ton  said,  changing  his  manner.  "What  is  this  about  a 
disguised  and  wonderful  man  who  rushed  in  and  upset 
the  whole  of  you.  I  want  no  romancing ;  give  me  the 
facts." 

Barlow's  dissolute  countenance  became  troubled. 

"The  facts,"  he  said,  speaking  with  serious  delibera 
tion,  "are  not  clear.  It  was  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  the 
way  that  man  performed.  As  you  say,  he  did  fling  the 
whole  squad  all  of  a  heap,  and  it  was  done  that 
quickly,"  he  snapped  his  thumb  and  finger  demonstra 
tively  with  a  sharp  report;  "nobody  could  under 
stand  it." 

Hamilton  looked  at  his  subaltern  with  a  smile  of  un 
limited  contempt  and  said: 

"A  pretty  officer  of  His  Majesty's  army,  you  are, 
Lieutenant  Barlow !  First  a  slip  of  a  girl  shows  her 
self  your  superior  with  the  sword  and  wounds  you, 
then  a  single  man  wipes  up  the  floor  of  a  house  with 
you  and  your  guard,  depriving  you  at  the  same  time 
of  both  vision  and  memory,  so  that  you  cannot  even 
describe  your  assailant !" 

"He  was  dressed  like  a  priest,"  muttered  Barlow, 
evidently  frightened  at  his  commander's  scathing  com 
ment.  "That  was  all  there  was  to  see." 

"A  priest !  Some  of  the  men  say  the  devil.  I  won 
der "  Hamilton  hesitated  and  looked  at  the  floor. 

"This  Father  Beret,  he  is  too  old  for  such  a  thing, 
isn't  he?" 

"I  have  thought  of  him — it  was  like  him — but  he  is, 
as  you  say,  very  old  to  be  so  tremendously  strong  and 
active.  Why,  I  tell  you  that  men  went  from  his  hands 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  259 

against  the  walls  and  floor  as  if  shot  out  of  a  mortar. 
It  was  the  strangest  and  most  astounding  thing  I  ever 
heard  of." 

A  little  later  Barlow  seized  a  favorable  opportunity 
and  withdrew.  The  conversation  was  not  to  his  liking. 

Hamilton  sent  for  Father  Beret  and  had  a  long  talk 
with  him,  but  the  old  man  looked  so  childishly  inoffen 
sive  in  spirit  and  so  collapsed  physically  that  it  seemed 
worse  than  foolishness  to  accuse  him  of  the  exploit 
over  which  the  entire  garrison  was  wondering.  Farns- 
worth  sat  by  during  the  interview.  He  looked  the  good 
priest  curiously  and  critically  over  from  head  to  foot, 
remembering,  but  not  mentioning,  the  most  unclerical 
punch  in  the  side  received  from  that  energetic  right 
arm  now  lying  so  flabbily  across  the  old  man's  lap. 

When  the  tallr  ended  and  Father  Beret  humbly  took 
his  leave,  Hamilton  turned  to  Farnsworth  and  said : 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  affair?  I  have  cross- 
questioned  all  the  men  who  took  part  in  it,  and  every 
one  of  them  says  simply  priest  or  devil.  I  think  old 
Beret  is  both;  but  plainly  he  couldn't  hurt  a  chicken, 
you  can  see  that  at  a  glance." 

Farnsworth  smiled,  rubbing  his  side  reminiscently ; 
but  he  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  sure  it's  puzzling,  indeed." 

Hamilton  sat  in  thoughtful  silence  for  a  while,  then 
abruptly  changed  the  subject 

"I  think,  Captain,  that  you  had  better  send  out  Lieu 
tenant  Barlow  and  some  of  the  best  woodsmen  to  kill 
some  game.  We  need  fresh  venison,  and,  by  George ! 
I'm  not  going  to  depend  upon  these  French  traitors 


260         Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

any  longer.  I  have  set  my  foot  down ;  they've  got  to 
do  better  or  take  the  consequences."  He  paused  for 
a  breath,  then  added :  "That  girl  has  done  too  much 
to  escape  severest  punishment.  The  garrison  will  be 
demoralized  if  this  thing  goes  on  without  an  example 
of  authority  rigidly  enforced.  I  am  resolved  that  there 
shall  be  a  startling  and  effective  public  display  of  my 
power  to  punish.  She  shot  you ;  you  seem  to  be  glad  of 
it,  but  it  was  a  grave  offence.  She  has  stabbed  Bar 
low;  that  is  another  serious  crime;  but  worst  of  all 
she  aided  a  spy  and  resisted  arrest.  She  must  be 
punished." 

Farnsworth  knew  Hamilton's  nature,  and  he  now 
saw  that  Alice  was  in  dreadful  danger  of  death  or 
something  even  worse.  Whenever  his  chief  talked  of 
discipline  and  the  need  of  maintaining  his  authority, 
there  was  little  hope  of  softening  his  decisions.  More 
over,  the  provocation  to  apply  extreme  measures  really 
seemed  sufficient,  regarded  from  a  military  point  of 
view,  and  Captain  Farnsworth  was  himself,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  a  disciplinarian  of  the  strictest 
class.  The  fascination,  however,  by  which  Alice  held 
him  overbore  every  other  influence,  and  his  devotion 
to  her  loosened  every  other  tie  and  obligation  to  a  most 
dangerous  extent.  No  sooner  had  he  left  headquar 
ters  and  given  Barlow  his  instructions  touching  the 
hunting  expedition,  than  his  mind  began  to  wander 
amid  visions  and  schemes  by  no  means  consistent  with 
his  military  obligations.  In  order  to  reflect  undis 
turbed  he  went  forth  into  the  dreary,  lane-like  streets 


A  Prisoner  of  Love  261 

of  Vincennes  and  walked  aimlessly  here  and  there 
until  he  met  Father  Beret. 

Farnsworth  saluted  the  old  man,  and  was  passing 
him  by,  when  seeing  a  sword  in  his  hand,  half  hidden 
in  the  folds  of  his  worn  and  faded  cassock,  he  turned 
and  addressed  him. 

"Why  are  you  armed  this  morning,  Father?"  he 
demanded  very  pleasantly.  "Who  is  to  suffer  now  ?" 

"I  am  not  on  the  war-path,  my  son,"  replied  the 
priest.  "It  is  but  a  rapier  that  I  am  going  to  clean  of 
rust  spots  that  are  gathering  on  its  blade." 

"Is  it  yours,  Father?  Let  me  see  it."  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

"No,  not  mine." 

Father  Beret  seemed  not  to  notice  Farnsworth's  de 
sire  to  handle  the  weapon,  and  the  young  man,  instead 
of  repeating  his  words,  reached  farther,  nearly  grasp 
ing  the  scabbard. 

"I  cannot  let  you  take  it,  my  son,"  said  Father  Beret. 
"You  have  its  mate,  that  should  satisfy  you." 

"No,  Colonel  Hamilton  took  it,"  Farnsworth  quickly 
replied.  "If  I  could  I  would  gladly  return  it  to  its 
owner.  I  am  not  a  thief,  Father,  and  I  am  ashamed  of 
—of — what  I  did  when  I  was  drunk." 

The  priest  looked  sharply  into  Farnsworth's  eyes  and 
read  there  something  that  reassured  him.  His  long 
experience  had  rendered  him  adept  at  taking  a  man's 
value  at  a  glance.  He  slightly  lifted  his  face  and  said : 

"Ah,  but  the  poor  little  girl!  why  do  you  persecute 
her?  She  really  does  not  deserve  it.  She  is  a  noble 


262         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

child.  Give  her  back  to  her  home  and  her  people.  Do 
not  soil  and  spoil  her  sweet  life." 

It  was  the  sing-song  voice  used  by  Father  Beret  in 
his  sermons  and  prayers;  but  something  went  with  it 
indescribably  touching.  Farnsworth  felt  a  lump  rise 
in  his  throat  and  his  eyes  were  ready  to  show  tears 

"Father,"  he  said,  with  difficulty  making  his  words 
distinct,  "I  would  not  harm  Miss  Roussillon  to  save 
my  own  life,  and  I  would  do  anything — "  he  paused 
slightly,  then  added  with  passionate  force;  "I  would 
do  anything,  no  matter  what,  to  save  her  from  the 
terrible  thing  that  now  threatens  her." 

Father  Beret's  countenance  changed  curiously  as  he 
gazed  at  the  young  man  and  said: 

"If  you  really  mean  what  you  say,  you  can  easily 
save  her,  my  son." 

"Father,  by  all  that  is  holy,  I  mean  just  what  I  say." 

"Swear  not  at  all,  my  son,  but  give  me  your  hand." 

The  two  men  stood  with  a  tight  grip  between  them 
and  exchanged  a  long,  steady,  searching  gaze. 

A  drizzling  rain  had  begun  to  fall  again,  with  a  raw 
wind  creeping  from  the  west. 

"Come  with  me  to  my  house,  my  son,"  Father  Beret 
presently  added;  and  together  they  went,  the  priest 
covering  Alice's  sword  from  the  rain  with  the  folds  of 
his  cassock. 


CHAPTER  XV 

VIRTUE   IN    A   LOCKET 

Long-Hair  stood  not  upon  ceremony  in  conveying 
to  Beverley  the  information  that  he  was  to  run  the 
gauntlet,  which,  otherwise  stated,  meant  that  the  In 
dians  would  form  themselves  in  two  parallel  lines  fac 
ing  each  other  about  six  feet  apart,  and  that  the 
prisoner  would  be  expected  to  run  down  the  length  of 
the  space  between,  thus  affording  the  warriors  an  op 
portunity,  greatly  coveted  and  relished  by  their  fiendish 
natures,  to  beat  him  cruelly  during  his  flight.  This 
sort  of  thing  was  to  the  Indians,  indeed,  an  exquisite 
amusement,  as  fascinating  to  them  as  the  theater  is  to 
more  enlightened  people.  No  sooner  was  it  agreed  up 
on  that  the  entertainment  should  again  be  undertaken 
than  all  the  younger  men  began  to  scurry  around  get 
ting  everything  ready  for  it.  Their  faces  glowed  with 
a  droll  cruelty  strange  to  see,  and  they  further  ex 
pressed  their  lively  expectations  by  playful  yet  curi 
ously  solemn  antics. 

The  preparations  were  simple  and  quickly  made. 
Each  man  armed  himself  with  a  stick  three  feet  long 
and  about  three-quarters  of  an  inch  in  diameter. 
Rough  weapons  they  were,  cut  from  boughs  of  scrub- 
oak,  knotty  and  tough  as  horn.  Long-Hair  unbound 
Beverley  and  stripped  his  clothes  from  his  body  down 
to  the  waist.  Then  the  lines  formed,  the  Indians  in 
each  row  standing  about  as  far  apart  as  the  width  of 

263 


264         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  space  in  which  the  prisoner  was  to  run.  This 
arrangement  gave  them  free  use  of  their  sticks  and 
plenty  of  room  for  full  swing  of  their  lithe  bodies. 

In  removing  Beverley's  clothes  Long-Hair  found 
Alice's  locket  hanging  over  the  young  man's  heart.  He 
tore  it  rudely  off  and  grunted,  glaring  viciously,  first 
at  it,  then  at  Beverley.  He  seemed  to  be  mightily 
wrought  upon. 

"White  man  damn  thief,"  he  growled  deep  in  his 
throat ;  "stole  from  little  girl !" 

He  put  the  locket  in  his  pouch  and  resumed  his 
stupidly  indifferent  expression. 

When  everything  was  ready  for  the  delightful  enter 
tainment  to  begin,  Long-Hair  waved  his  tomahawk 
three  times  over  Beverley's  head,  and  pointing  down 
between  the  waiting  lines  said : 

"Ugh,  run!" 

But  Beverley  did  not  budge.  He  was  standing  erect, 
with  his  arms,  deeply  creased  where  the  thongs  had 
sunk,  folded  across  his  breast.  A  rush  of  thoughts  and 
feelings  had  taken  tumultuous  possession  of  him  and 
he  could  not  move  or  decide  what  to  do.  A  mad  desire 
to  escape  arose  in  his  heart  the  moment  that  he  saw 
Long-Hair  take  the  locket.  It  was  as  if  Alice  had 
3-ied  to  him  and  bidden  him  make  a  dash  for  liberty. 

"Ugh,  run!" 

The  order  was  accompanied  with  a  push  of  such 
violence  from  Long-Hair's  left  elbow  that  Beverley 
plunged  and  fell,  for  his  limbs,  after  their  long  and 
painful  confinement  in  the  raw-hide  bonds,  were  stiff 
almost  useless.  Long-Hair  in  no  gentle  voice  bade 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  265 

hkn  get  up.  The  shock  of  falling  seemed  to  awaken 
his  dormant  forces;  a  sudden  resolve  leaped  into  his 
brain.  He  saw  that  the  Indians  had  put  aside  their 
bows  and  guns,  most  of  which  were  leaning  against 
the  boles  of  trees  here  and  yonder.  What  if  he  could 
knock  Long-Hair  down  and  run  away?  This  might 
possibly  be  easy,  considering  the  Indian's  broken  arm. 
His  heart  jumped  at  the  possibility.  But  the  shrewd 
savage  was  alert  and  saw  the  thought  come  into  his 
face. 

"You  try  git  'way,  kill  dead!"  he  snarled,  lifting 
his  tomahawk  ready  for  a  stroke.  "Brains  out,  damn !" 

Beverley  glanced  down  the  waiting  and  eager  lines. 
Swiftly  he  speculated,  wondering  what  would  be  his 
chance  for  escape  were  he  to  break  through.  But  he 
did  not  take  his  own  condition  into  account. 

"Ugh,  run!" 

Again  the  elbow  of  Long-Hair's  hurt  arm  pushed 
him  toward  the  expectant  rows  of  Indians,  who  flour 
ished  their  clubs  and  uttered  impatient  grunts. 

This  time  he  did  not  fall;  but  in  trying  to  run  he 
limped  stiffly  at  first,  his  legs  but  slowly  and  imper 
fectly  regaining  their  strength  and  suppleness  from  the 
action.  Just  before  reaching  the  lines,  however,  he 
stopped  short.  Long-Hair,  who  was  close  behind  him, 
took  hold  of  his  shoulder  and  led  him  back  to  the 
starting  place.  The  big  Indian's  arm  must  have  given 
him  pain  when  he  thus  used  it,  but  he  did  not  wince. 
"Fool — kill  dead!"  he  repeated  two  or  three  times, 
holding  his  tomahawk  on  high  with  threatening  mo 
tions  and  frequent  repetitions  of  his  one  echo  from 


266          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  profanity  of  civilization.  He  was  beginning  to 
draw  his  mouth  down  at  the  corners,  and  his  eyes  were 
narrowed  to  mere  slits. 

Beverley  understood  now  that  he  could  not  longer 
put  off  the  trial.  He  must  choose  between  certain 
death  and  the  torture  of  the  gauntlet,  as  frontiersmen 
named  this  savage  ordeal.  An  old  man  might  have 
preferred  the  stroke  of  the  hatchet  to  such  an  infliction 
as  the  clubs  must  afford,  considering  that,  even  after 
all  the  agony,  his  captivity  and  suffering  would  be 
only  a  little  nearer  its  end.  Youth,  however,  has  faith 
in  the  turn  of  fortune's  wheel,  and  faith  in  itself,  no 
matter  how  dark  the  prospect.  Hope  blows  her  horn 
just  over  the  horizon,  and  the  strain  bids  the  young 
heart  take  courage  and  beat  strong.  Moreover,  men 
were  men,  who  led  the  van  in  those  days  on  the  outmost 
lines  of  our  march  to  the  summit  of  the  world.  Bever 
ley  was  not  more  a  hero  than  any  other  young,  brave, 
unconquerable  patriot  of  the  frontier  army.  His  situ 
ation  simply  tried  him  a  trifle  harder  than  was  com 
mon.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  had  Love 
with  him,  and  where  Love  is  there  can  be  no  cowardice, 
no  surrender. 

Long-Hair  once  again  pushed  him  and  said. 

"Ugh,  run!" 

Beverley  made  a  direct  dash  for  the  narrow  lane 
between  the  braced  and  watchful  lines.  Every  warrior 
lifted  his  club;  every  copper  face  gleamed  stolidly,  a 
mask  behind  which  burned  a  strangely  atrocious  spirit. 
The  two  savages  standing  at  the  end  nearest  Beverley 
struck  at  him  the  instant  he  reached  them,  but  they 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  267 

were  taken  quite  by  surprise  when  he  checked  himself 
between  them  and,  leaping  this  way  and  that,  swung 
out  two  powerful  blows,  left  and  right,  stretching  one 
of  them  flat  and  sending  the  other  reeling  and  stagger 
ing  half  a  dozen  paces  backward  with  the  blood  stream 
ing  from  his  nose. 

This  done,  Beverley  turned  to  run  away,  but  his 
breath  was  already  short  and  his  strength  was  rapidly 
going. 

Long-Hair,  who  was  at  his  heels,  leaped  before  him 
when  he  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  and  once  more 
flourished  the  tomahawk.  To  struggle  was  useless, 
save  to  insist  upon  being  brained  outright,  which  just 
then  had  no  part  in  Beverley's  considerations.  Long- 
Hair  kicked  his  victim  heavily,  uttering  laconic  curses 
meanwhile,  and  led  him  back  again  to  the  starting- 
point. 

A  genuine  sense  of  humor  seems  almost  entirely 
lacking  in  the  mind  of  the  American  Indian.  He  smiles 
at  things  not  in  the  least  amusing  to  us  and  when  he 
laughs,  which  is  very  seldom,  the  cause  of  his  merri 
ment  usually  lies  in  something  repellantly  cruel  and 
inhuman.  When  Beverley  struck  his  two  assailants, 
hurting  them  so  that  one  lay  half  stunned,  while  the 
other  spun  away  from  his  fist  with  a  smashed  nose, 
all  the  rest  of  the  Indians  grunted  and  laughed 
raucously  in  high  delight.  They  shook  their  clubs, 
danced,  pointed  at  their  discomfited  fellows  and  twisted 
their  painted  faces  into  knotted  wrinkles,  their  eyes 
twinkling  with  devilish  expression  of  glee  quite  inde 
scribable. 


268         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Ugh,  damn,  run !"  said  Long-Hair,  this  time  adding 
a  hard  kick  to  the  elbow-shove  he  gave  Beverley. 

The  young  man,  who  had  borne  all  he  could,  now 
turned  upon  him  furiously  and  struck  straight  from 
the  shoulder,  setting  the  whole  weight  of  his  body  into 
the  blow.  Long-Hair  stepped  out  of  the  way  and 
quick  as  a  flash  brought  the  flat  side  of  his  tomahawk 
with  great  force  against  Beverley's  head.  This  gave 
the  amusement  a  sudden  and  disappointing  end,  for 
the  prisoner  fell  limp  and  senseless  to  the  ground. 
No  more  running  the  gauntlet  for  him  that  day.  In 
deed  it  required  protracted  application  of  the  best  In 
dian  skill  to  revive  him  so  that  he  could  fairly  be  called 
a  living  man.  There  had  been  no  dangerous  con 
cussion,  however,  and  on  the  following  morning  camp 
was  broken. 

Beverley,  sore,  haggard,  forlornly  disheveled,  had 
his  arms  bound  again  and  was  made  to  march  apace 
with  his  nimble  enemies,  who  set  out  swiftly  eastward, 
their  disappointment  at  having  their  sport  cut  short, 
although  bitter  enough,  not  in  the  least  indicated  by 
any  facial  expression  or  spiteful  act. 

Was  it  really  a  strange  thing,  or  was  it  not,  that 
Beverley's  mind  now  busied  itself  unceasingly  with  the 
thought  that  Long-Hair  had  Alice's  picture  in  his 
pouch?  One  might  find  room  for  discussion  of  a 
cerebral  problem  like  this;  but  our  history  cannot  be 
delayed  with  analyses  and  speculations ;  it  must  run  its 
direct  course  unhindered  to  the  end.  Suffice  it  to 
record  that,  while  tramping  at  Long-Hair's  side  and 
growing  more  and  more  desirous  of  seeing  the  picture 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  269 

again,  Beverley  began  trying  to  converse  with  his  taci 
turn  captor.  He  had  a  considerable  smattering  of 
several  Indian  dialects,  which  he  turned  upon  Long- 
Hair  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  apparently  without 
effect.  Nevertheless  he  babbled  at  intervals,  always 
upon  the  same  subject  and  always  endeavoring  to 
influence  that  huge,  stolid,  heartless  savage  in  the  di 
rection  of  letting  him  see  again  the  child  face  of  the 
miniature. 

A  stone,  one  of  our  travel-scarred  and  mysterious 
western  granite  bowlders  brought  from  the  far  north 
by  the  ancient  ice,  would  show  as  much  sympathy  as 
did  the  face  of  Long-Hair.  Once  in  a  while  he  gave 
Beverley  a  soulless  glance  and  said  "damn"  with  utter 
indifference.  Nothing,  however,  could  quench  or  even 
in  the  slightest  sense  allay  the  lover's  desire.  He  talked 
of  Alice  and  the  locket  with  constantly  increasing  volu 
bility,  saying  over  and  over  phrases  of  endearment  in 
a  half-delirious  way,  not  aware  that  fever  was  fer 
menting  his  blood  and  heating  his  brain.  Probably  he 
would  have  been  very  ill  but  for  the  tremendous 
physical  exercise  forced  upon  him.  The  exertion  kept 
him  in  a  profuse  perspiration  and  his  robust  consti 
tution  cast  off  the  malarial  poison.  Meantime  he  used 
every  word  and  phrase,  every  grunt  and  gesture  of 
Indian  dialect  that  he  could  recall,  in  the  iterated  and 
reiterated  attempt  to  make  Long-Hair  understand 
what  he  wanted. 

When  night  came  on  again  the  band  camped  under 
some  trees  beside  a  swollen  stream.  There  was  no 
rain  falling,  but  almost  the  entire  country  lay  under 


270          Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

a  flood  of  water.  Fires  of  logs  were  soon  burning 
brightly  on  the  comparatively  dry  bluff  chosen  by  the 
Indians.  The  weather  was  chill,  but  not  cold.  Long- 
Hair  took  great  pains,  however,  to  dry  Beverley's 
clothes  and  see  that  he  had  warm  wraps  and  plenty 
to  eat.  Hamilton's  large  reward  would  not  be  forth 
coming  should  the  prisoner  die.  Beverley  was  good 
property,  well  worth  careful  attention.  To  be  sure  his 
scalp,  in  the  worst  event,  would  command  a  sufficient 
honorarium,  but  not  the  greatest.  Beverley  thought  of 
all  this  while  the  big  Indian  was  wrapping  him  snugly 
in  skins  and  blankets  for  the  night,  and  there  was  no 
comfort  in  it,  save  that  possibly  if  he  were  returned  to 
Hamilton  he  might  see  Alice  again  before  he  died. 

A  fitful  wind  cried  dolefully  in  the  leafless  treetops, 
the  stream  hard  by  gave  forth  a  rushing  sound,  and 
far  away  some  wolves  howled  like  lost  souls.  Worn 
out,  sore  from  head  to  foot,  Beverley,  deep  buried  in 
the  blankets  and  skins,  soon  fell  into  a  profound  sleep. 
The  fires  slowly  crumbled  and  faded ;  no  sentinel  was 
posted,  for  the  Indians  did  not  fear  an  attack,  there 
being  no  enemies  that  they  knew  of  nearer  than  Kas- 
kaskia.  The  camp  slumbered  as  one  man. 

At  about  the  mid-hour  of  the  night  Long-Hair  gently 
awoke  his  prisoner  by  drawing  a  hand  across  his  face, 
then  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Damn,  still !" 

Beverley  tried  to  rise,  uttering  a  sleepy  ejaculation 
under  his  breath. 

"No  talk,"  hissed  Long-Hair.    "Still!" 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  not  only 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  271 

swept  the  last  film  of  sleep  out  of  Beverley's  brain,  but 
made  it  perfectly  clear  to  him  that  a  very  important 
bit  of  craftiness  was  being  performed;  just  what  its 
nature  was,  however,  he  could  not  surmise.  One  thing 
was  obvious,  Long-Hair  did  not  wish  the  other 
Indians  to  know  of  the  move  he  was  making.  Deftly 
he  slipped  the  blankets  from  around  Beverley,  and 
cut  the  thongs  at  his  ankles. 

"Still!"  he  whispered.  "Come  'long." 
Under  such  circumstances  a  competent  mind  acts 
with  lightning  celerity.  Beverley  now  understood 
that  Long-Hair  was  stealing  him  away  from  the  other 
savages  and  that  the  big  villain  meant  to  cheat  them 
out  of  their  part  of  the  reward.  Along  with  this  dis 
covery  came  a  fresh  gleam  of  hope.  It  would  be  far 
easier  to  escape  from  one  Indian  than  from  nearly  a 
score.  Ah,  he  would  follow  Long-Hair,  indeed  he 
would !  The  needed  courage  came  with  the  thought, 
and  so  with  immense  labor  he  crept  at  the  heels  of  that 
crawling  monster.  It  was  a  painful  process,  for  his 
arms  were  still  fast  bound  at  the  wrists  with  the  raw 
hide  strings ;  but  what  was  pain  to  him  ?  He  shivered 
with  joy,  thinking  of  what  might  happen.  The  voice 
of  the  wind  overhead  and  the  noisy  bubbling  of  the 
stream  near  by  were  cheerful  and  cheering  sounds  to 
him  now.  So  much  can  a  mere  shadow  of  hope  do 
for  a  human  soul  on  the  verge  of  despair !  Already  he 
was  planning  or  trying  to  plan  some  way  by  which  he 
could  kill  Long-Hair  when  they  should  reach  a  safe 
distance  from  the  sleeping  camp. 

But  how  could  the  thing  be  done?    A  man  with  his 


272          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

hands  tied,  though  they  are  in  front  of  him,  is  in  no 
excellent  condition  to  cope  with  a  free  and  stalwart 
savage  armed  to  the  teeth.  Still  Beverley's  spirits  rose 
with  every  rod  of  distance  that  was  added  to  their  slow 
progress. 

Their  course  was  nearly  parallel  with  that  of  the 
stream,  but  slightly  converging  toward  it,  and  after 
they  had  gone  about  a  furlong  they  reached  the  bank. 
Here  Long-Hair  stopped  and,  without  a  word,  cut 
the  thongs  from  Beverley's  wrists.  This  was  astound 
ing  ;  the  young  man  could  scarcely  realize  it,  nor  was 
he  ready  to  act. 

"Swim  water,"  Long-Hair  said  in  a  guttural  mur 
mur  barely  audible.  "Swim,  damn!" 

Again  it  was  necessary  for  Beverley's  mind  to  act 
swiftly  and  with  prudence.  The  camp  was  yet  within 
hailing  distance.  A  false  move  now  would  bring  the 
whole  pack  howling  to  the  rescue.  Something  told 
him  to  do  as  Long-Hair  ordered,  so  with  scarcely  a 
perceptible  hesitation  he  scrambled  down  the  bushy 
bank  and  slipped  into  the  water,  followed  by  Long- 
Hair,  who  seized  him  by  one  arm  when  he  began  to 
swim,  and  struck  out  with  him  into  the  boiling  and 
tumbling  current. 

Beverley  had  always  thought  himself  a  master 
swimmer,  but  Long-Hair  showed  him  his  mistake. 
The  giant  Indian,  with  but  one  hand  free  to  use,  fairly 
rushed  through  that  deadly  cold  and  turbulent  water, 
bearing  his  prisoner  with  him  despite  the  wounded  arm, 
as  easily  as  if  towing  him  at  the  stern  of  a  pirogue. 
True,  his  course  was  down  stream  for  a  considerable 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  273 

distance,  but  even  when  presently  he  struck  out  boldly 
for  the  other  bank,  breasting  a  current  in  which  few 
swimmers  could  have  lived,  much  less  made  headway, 
he  still  swung  forward  rapidly,  splitting  the  waves 
and  scarcely  giving  Beverley  freedom  enough  so  that 
he  could  help  in  the  progress.  It  was  a  long,  cold 
struggle,  and  when  at  last  they  touched  the  sloping  low 
bank  on  the  other  side,  Long-Hair  had  fairly  to  lift 
his  chilled  and  exhausted  prisoner  to  the  top. 

"Ugh,  cold,"  he  grunted,  beginning  to  pound  and 
rub  Beverley's  arms,  legs  and  body.  "Make  warm, 
damn  heap!" 

All  this  he  did  with  his  right  hand,  holding  the 
tomahawk  in  his  left. 

It  was  a  strange,  bewildering  experience  out  of 
which  the  young  man  could  not  see  in  any  direction 
far  enough  to  give  him  a  hint  upon  which  to  act.  In  a 
few  minutes  Long-Hair  jerked  him  to  his  feet  and  said : 

"Go." 

It  was  just  light  enough  to  see  that  the  order  had 
a  tomahawk  to  enforce  it  withal.  Long-Hair  indi 
cated  the  direction  and  drove  Beverley  onward  as  fast 
as  he  could. 

"Try  run  'way,  kill,  damn !"  he  kept  repeating,  while 
with  his  left  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  he 
guided  him  from  behind  dexterously  through  the  wood 
for  some  distance.  Then  he  stopped  and  grunted,  add 
ing  his  favorite  expletive,  which  he  used  with  not  the 
least  knowledge  of  its  meaning.  To  him  the  syllable 
"damn"  was  but  a  mouthful  of  forcible  wind. 

They  had  just  emerged  from  a  thicket  into  an  open 


274         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

space,  where  the  ground  was  comparatively  dry.  Over 
head  the  stars  were  shining  in  great  clusters  of  silver 
and  gold  against  a  dark,  cavernous  looking  sky,  here 
and  there  overrun  with  careering  black  clouds  Bev- 
erley  shivered,  not  so  much  with  cold  as  on  account 
of  the  stress  of  excitement  which  amounted  to  nerv 
ous  rigor.  Long-Hair  faced  him  and  leaned  toward 
him,  until  his  breathing  was  audible  and  his  massive 
features  were  dimly  outlined.  A  dragon  of  the  dark 
est  age  could  not  have  been  more  repulsive. 

"Ugh,  friend,  damn !" 

Beverley  started  when  these  words  were  followed 
by  a  sentence  in  an  Indian  dialect  somewhat  familiar 
to  him,  a  dialect  in  which  he  had  tried  to  talk  with 
Long-Hair  during  the  day's  march.  The  sentence, 
literally  translated,  was: 

"Long-Hair  is  friendly  now." 

A  blow  in  the  face  could  not  have  been  so  sur 
prising.  Beverley  not  only  started,  but  recoiled  as  if 
from  a  sudden  and  deadly  apparition.  The  step  be 
tween  supreme  exhilaration  and  utter  collapse  is  now 
and  then  infinitesimal.  There  are  times,  moreover,  when 
an  expression  on  the  face  of  Hope  makes  her  look 
like  the  twin  sister  of  Despair.  The  moment  falling 
just  after  Long-Hair  spoke  was  a  century  condensed 
in  a  breath. 

"Long-Hair  is  friendly  now;  will  whit-e  man  be 
friendly?" 

Beverley  heard,  but  the  speech  seemed  to  come  out 
of  vastness  and  hollow  distance;  he  could  not  realize 
it  fairly.  He  felt  as  if  in  a  dream,  far  off  somewhere 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  275 

In  loneliness,  with  a  big,  shadowy  form  looming  before 
him.  He  heard  the  chill  wind  in  the  thickets  round 
about,  and  beyond  Long-Hair  rose  a  wall  of  giant  trees. 

"Ugh,  not  understand?"  the  savage  presently  de 
manded  in  his  broken  English. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Beverley,  "I  understand." 

"Is  the  white  man  friendly  now?"  Long-Hair  then 
repeated  in  his  own  tongue,  with  a  certain  insistence 
of  manner  and  voice. 

"Yes,  friendly." 

Beverley  said  this  absently  in  a  tone  of  perfunctory 
dryness.  His  throat  was  parched,  his  head  seemed  to 
waver.  But  he  was  beginning  to  comprehend  that 
Long-Hair,  for  some  inscrutable  reason  of  his  own, 
was  desirous  of  making  a  friendship  between  them. 
The  thought  was  bewildering. 

Long-Hair  fumbled  in  his  pouch  and  took  out  Alice's 
locket,  which  he  handed  to  Beverley.  "White  man 
love  little  girl?"  he  inquired  in  a  tone  that  bordered 
upon  tenderness,  again  speaking  in  Indian. 

Beverley  clutched  the  disk  as  soon  as  he  saw  it  gleam 
in  the  star-light. 

"White  man  going  to  have  little  girl  for  his  squaw— 
eh?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Beverley  without  hearing  his  own 
voice.  He  was  trying  to  open  the  locket  but  his  hands 
were  numb  and  trembling.  When  at  last  he  did 
open  it  he  could  not  see  the  child  face  within,  for  now 
even  the  star-light  was  shut  off  by  a  scudding  black 
cloud. 


Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Little  girl  saved  Long-Hair's  life.  Long-Hair  save 
white  warrior  for  little  girl." 

A  dignity  which  was  almost  noble  accompanied 
these  simple  sentences.  Long-Hair  stood  proudly 
erect,  like  a  colossal  dark  statue  in  the  dimness. 

The  great  truth  dawned  upon  Beverley  that  here 
was  a  characteristic  act.  He  knew  that  an  Indian 
rarely  failed  to  repay  a  kindness  or  an  injury,  stroke 
for  stroke,  when  opportunity  offered.  Long-Hair  was 
a  typical  Indian.  That  is  to  say,  a  type  of  inhumanity 
raised  to  the  last  power ;  but  under  his  hideous  atrocity 
of  nature  lay  the  indestructible  sense  of  gratitude  so 
fixed  and  perfect  that  it  did  its  work  almost  automat 
ically. 

It  must  be  said,  and  it  may  or  may  not  be  to  the 
white  man's  shame,  that  Beverley  did  not  respond  with 
absolute  promptness  and  sincerity  to  Long-Hair's 
generosity.  He  had  suffered  terribly  at  the  hands  of 
this  savage.  His  arms  and  legs  were  raw  from  the 
biting  of  the  thongs;  his  body  ached  from  the  effect 
of  blows  and  kicks  laid  upon  him  while  bound  and 
helpless.  Perhaps  he  was  not  a  very  emotional  man. 
At  all  events  there  was  no  sudden  recognition  of  the 
favor  he  was  receiving.  And  this  pleased  Long-Hair, 
for  the  taste  of  the  American  Indian  delights  in  im 
mobility  of  countenance  and  reserve  of  feeling  under 
great  strain. 

"Wait  here  a  little  while,"  Long-Hair  presently  said, 
and  without  lingering  for  reply,  turned  away  and  dis 
appeared  in  the  wood.  Beverley  was  free  to  run  if  he 
wished  to,  and  the  thought  did  surge  across  his  mind; 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  277 

but  a  restraining  something,  like  a  hand  laid  upon 
him,  would  not  let  his  limbs  move.  Down  deep  in  his 
heart  a  calm  voice  seemed  to  be  repeating  Long- 
Hair's  Indian  sentence — "Wait  here  a  little  while." 

A  few  minutes  later  Long-Hair  returned  bearing  two 
guns,  Beverley's  and  his  own,  the  latter,  a  superb 
weapon  given  him  by  Hamilton.  He  afterward  ex 
plained  that  he  had  brought  these,  with  their  bullet- 
pouches  and  powder-horns,  to  a  place  of  concealment 
near  by  before  he  awoke  Beverley.  This  meant  that 
he  had  swum  the  cold  river  three  times  since  night 
fall;  once  over  with  the  guns  and  accouterments ; 
once  back  to  camp,  then  over  again  with  Beverley! 
All  this  with  a  broken  arm,  and  to  repay  Alice  for  her 
kindness  to  him. 

Beverley  may  have  been  slow,  but  at  last  his  appre 
ciation  was,  perhaps,  all  the  more  profound.  As  best 
he  could  he  expressed  it  to  Long-Hair,  who  showed  no 
interest  whatever  in  the  statement.  Instead  of  re 
sponding  in  Indian,  he  said  "damn"  without  emphasis. 
It  was  rather  as  if  he  had  yawned  absently,  being 
bored. 

Delay  could  not  be  thought  of.  Long-Hair  ex- 
' plained  briefly  that  he  thought  Beverley  must  go  to 
Kaskaskia.  He  had  come  across  the  stream  in  the 
direction  of  Vincennes  in  order  to  set  his  warriors  at 
fault.  The  stream  must  be  recrossed,  he  said,  farther 
down,  and  he  would  help  Beverley  a  certain  distance 
on  his  way,  then  leave  him  to  shift  for  himself.  He 
had  a  meager  amount  of  parched  corn  and  buffalo  meat 


278         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

in  his  pouch,  which  would  stay  hunger  until  they  could 
kill  some  game.  Now  they  must  go. 

The  resilience  of  a  youthful  and  powerful  physique 
offers  many  a  problem  to  the  biologist.  Vital  force 
seems  to  find  some  mysterious  reservoir  of  nourish 
ment  hidden  away  in  the  nerve-centers.  Beverley  set 
out  upon  that  seemingly  impossible  undertaking  with 
renewed  energy.  It  could  not  have  been  the  ounce  of 
parched  corn  and  bit  of  jerked  venison  from  which  he 
drew  so  much  strength;  but  on  the  other  hand,  could 
it  have  been  the  miniature  of  Alice,  which  he  felt  press 
ing  over  his  heart  once  more,  that  afforded  a  subtle 
stimulus  to  both  mind  and  body?  They  flung  miles 
behind  them  before  day-dawn,  Long-Hair  leading, 
Beverley  pressing  close  at  his  heels.  Most  of  the  way 
led  over  flat  prairies  covered  with  water,  and  they 
therefore  left  no  track  by  which  they  could  be  fol 
lowed. 

Late  in  the  forenoon  Long-Hair  killed  a  deer  at 
the  edge  of  a  wood.  HeYe  they  made  a  fire  and  cooked 
a  supply  which  would  last  them  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
then  on  they  went  again.  But  we  cannot  follow  them 
step  by  step.  When  Long-Hair  at  last  took  leave  of 
Beverley,  the  occasion  had  no  ceremony.  It  was  an 
abrupt,  unemotional  parting.  The  stalwart  Indian  sim 
ply  said  in  his  own  dialect,  pointing  westward: 

"Go  that  way  two  days.    You  will  find  your  friends." 

Then,  without  another  look  or  word,  he  turned  about 
and  stalked  eastward  at  a  marvelously  rapid  gait. 
In  his  mind  he  had  a  good  tale  to  tell  his  war 
rior  companions  when  he  should  find  them  again: 


Virtue  in  a  Locket  279 

how  Beverley  escaped  that  night  and  how  he  followed 
him  a  long,  long  chase,  only  to  lose  him  at  last  under 
the  very  guns  of  the  fort  at  Kaskaskia.  But  before  he 
reached  his  band  an  incident  of  some  importance 
changed  his  story  to  a  considerable  degree.  It  chanced 
that  he  came  upon  Lieutenant  Barlow,  who,  in  pursuit 
of  game,  had  lost  his  bearings  and,  far  from  his  com 
panions,  was  beating  around  quite  bewildered  in  a 
watery  solitude.  Long-Hair  promptly  murdered  the 
poor  fellow  and  scalped  him  with  as  little  compunction 
as  he  would  have  skinned  a  rabbit ;  for  he  had  a  clever 
scheme  in  his  head,  a  very  audacious  and  outrageous 
scheme,  by  which  he  purposed  to  recoup,  to  some  ex 
tent,  the  damages  sustained  by  letting  Beverley  go. 

Therefore,  when  he  rejoined  his  somewhat  disheart 
ened  and  demoralized  band  he  showed  them  the  scalp 
and  gave  them  an  eloquent  account  of  how  he  tore  it 
from  Beverley's  head  after  a  long  chase  and  a  bloody 
hand  to  hand  fight.  They  listened,  believed,  and  were 
satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
FATHER  BERET'S  OLD  BATTLE 

The  room  in  which  Alice  was  now  imprisoned 
formed  part  of  the  upper  story  of  a  building  erected  by 
Hamilton  in  one  of  the  four  angles  of  the  stockade. 
It  had  no  windows  and  but  two  oblong  port- holes  made 
to  accommodate  a  small  swivel,  which  stood  darkly 
scowling  near  the  middle  of  the  floor.  From  one  of 
these  apertures  Alice  could  see  the  straggling  roofs 
and  fences  of  the  dreary  little  town,  while  from  the 
other  a  long  reach  of  watery  prairie,  almost  a  lake,  lay 
under  view  with  the  rolling,  muddy  Wabash  gleaming 
beyond.  There  seemed  to  be  no  activity  of  garrison  or 
townspeople.  Few  sounds  broke  the  silence  of  wkich 
the  cheerless  prison  room  seemed  to  be  the  center. 

Alice  felt  all  her  courage  and  cheerfulness  leaving 
her.  She  was  alone  in  the  midst  of  enemies.  No 
father  or  mother,  no  friend — a  young  girl  at  the  mercy 
of  soldiers,  who  could  not  be  expected  to  regard  her 
with  any  sympathy  beyond  that  which  is  accompanied 
with  repulsive  leers  and  hints.  Day  after  day  her 
loneliness  and  helplessness  became  more  agonizing. 
Farnsworth,  it  is  true,  did  all  he  could  to  relieve  the 
strain  of  her  situation ;  but  Hamilton  had  an  eye  upon 
what  passed  and  soon  interfered.  He  administered  a 
bitter  reprimand,  under  which  his  subordinate  writhed 
in  speechless  anger  and  resentment. 

"Finally,  Captain  Farnsworth,"  he  said  in  conchr 
280 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       281 

sion,  "you  will  distinctly  understand  that  this  girl  is 
my  prisoner,  not  yours ;  that  I,  not  you,  will  direct 
how  she  is  to  be  held  and  treated,  and  that  hereafter  I 
will  suffer  no  interference  on  your  part.  I  hope  you 
fully  understand  me,  sir,  and  will  govern  yourself 
accordingly." 

Smarting,  or  rather  smothering,  under  the  outrage 
ous  insult  of  these  remarks,  Farnsworth  at  first  deter 
mined  to  fling  his  resignation  at  the  Governor's  feet 
and  then  do  whatever  desperate  thing  seemed  most  to 
his  mood.  But  a  soldier's  training  is  apt  to  call  a  halt 
before  the  worst  befalls  in  such  a  case.  Moreover,  in 
the  present  temptation,  Farnsworth  had  a  special  check 
and  hindrance.  He  had  had  a  conference  with  Father 
Beret,  in  which  the  good  priest  had  played  the  part 
of  wisdom  in  slippers,  and  of  gentleness  more  dove- 
like  than  the  dove's.  A  very  subtle  impression,  illumi 
nated  with  the  "hope  that  withers  hope,"  had  come 
of  that  interview;  and  now  Farnsworth  felt  its  re 
straint.  He  therefore  saluted  Hamilton  formally  and 
walked  away. 

Father  Beret's  paternal  love  for  Alice, — we  cannot 
characterize  it  more  nicely  than  to  call  it  paternal, — 
was  his  justification  for  a  certain  mild  sort  of  corrup 
tion  insinuated  by  him  into  the  heart  of  Farnsworth. 
He  was  a  crafty  priest,  but  his  craft  was  always  used 
for  a  good  end.  Unquestionably  Jesuitic  was  his  mode 
of  circumventing  the  young  man's  military  scruples  by 
offering  him  a  puff  of  fair  weather  with  which  to  sail 
toward  what  appeared  to  be  the  shore  of  delight.  He 
saw  at  a  glance  that  Farnsworth's  love  for  Alice  was 


282         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

a  consuming  passion  in  a  very  ardent  yet  decidedly 
weak  heart.  Here  was  the  worldly  lever  with  which 
Father  Beret  hoped  to  raze  Alice's  prison  and  free  her 
from  the  terrible  doom  with  which  she  was  threatened. 

The  first  interview  was  at  Father  Beret's  cabin,  to 
which,  as  will  be  remembered,  the  priest  and  Farns- 
worth  went  after  their  meeting  in  the  street.  It  actu 
ally  came  to  nothing,  save  an  indirect  understanding 
but  half  suggested  by  Father  Beret  and  never  openly 
sanctioned  by  Captain  Farnsworth.  The  talk  was  in 
sinuating  on  the  part  of  the  former,  while  the  latter 
slipped  evasively  from  every  proposition,  as  if  not  able 
to  consider  it  on  account  of  a  curious  obtuseness  of 
perception.  Still,  when  they  separated  they  shook 
hands  and  exchanged  a  searching  look  perfectly  satis 
factory  to  both. 

The  memory  of  that  interview  with  the  priest  was  in 
Farnsworth's  mind  when,  boiling  with  rage,  he  left 
Hamilton's  presence  and  went  forth  into  the  chill  Feb 
ruary  air.  He  passed  out  through  the  postern  and  along 
the  sodden  and  queachy  edge  of  the  prairie,  involun 
tarily  making  his  way  to  Father  Beret's  cabin.  His 
indignation  was  so  great  that  he  trembled  from  head 
to  foot  at  every  step.  The  door  of  the  place  was  open 
and  Father  Beret  was  eating  a  frugal  meal  of  scones 
and  sour  wine  (of  his  own  make,  he  said),  which  he 
hospitably  begged  to  share  with  his  visitor.  A  fire 
smouldered  on  the  hearth,  and  a  flat  stone  showed, 
by  the  grease  smoking  over  its  hot  surface,  where  the 
cakes  had  been  baked. 

"Come  in,  my  son,"  said  the  priest,  "and  try  the  fare 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       283 

©f  a  poor  old  man.  It  is  plain,  very  plain,  but  good." 
He  smacked  his  lips  sincerely  and  fingered  another 
scone.  "Take  some,  take  some." 

Farnsworth  was  not  tempted.  The  acid  bouquet 
of  the  wine  filled  the  room  with  a  smack  of  vinegar, 
and  the  smoke  from  rank  scorching  fat  and  wheat  meaJ 
did  not  suggest  an  agreeable  feast. 

"Well,  well,  if  you  are  not  hungry,  my  son,  sit  down 
on  the  stool  there  and  tell  me  the  news." 

Farnsworth  took  the  low  seat  without  a  word,  let 
ting  his  eyes  wander  over  the  walls.  Alice's  rapier, 
the  mate  to  that  now  worn  by  Hamilton,  hung  in  its 
curiously  engraved  scabbard  near  one  corner.  The 
sight  of  it  inflamed  Farnsworth. 

''It's  an  outrage,"  he  broke  forth.  "Governor  Ham 
ilton  sent  a  man  to  Roussillon  place  with  orders  to 
bring  him  the  scabbard  of  Miss  Roussillon's  sword, 
and  he  now  wears  the  beautiful  weapon  as  if  he  had 
come  by  it  honestly.  Damn  him!" 

"My  dear,  dear  son,  you  must  not  soil  your  lips  with 
such  language!"  Father  Beret  let  fall  the  half  of  a 
well  bitten  cake  and  held  up  both  hands. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Father ;  I  know  I  ought  to  be 
more  careful  in  your  presence ;  but — but — the  beastly, 
hellish  scoundrel " 

"Bah!  doucement,  mon  fils,  doucement"  The  old 
man  shook  his  head  and  his  finger  while  speaking. 
"Easy,  my  son,  easy.  You  would  be  a  fine  target  for 
bullets  were  your  words  to  reach  Hamilton's  ears. 
You  are  not  permitted  to  revile  your  commander." 


284          Alice  ot  Old  Vincennes 

"Yes,  I  know ;  but  how  can  a  man  restrain  himself 
under  such  abominable  conditions?" 

Father  Beret  shrewdly  guessed  that  Hamilton  had 
been  giving  the  Captain  fresh  reason  for  bitter  resent 
ment.  Moreover,  he  was  sure  that  the  moving  cause 
had  been  Alice.  So,  in  order  to  draw  out  what  he 
wished  to  hear,  he  said  very  gently : 

"How  is  the  little  prisoner  getting  along?" 

Farnsworth  ground  his  teeth  and  swore ;  but  Father 
Beret  appeared  not  to  hear;  he  bit  deep  into  a  scone, 
took  a  liberal  sip  of  the  muddy  red  wine  and  added: 

"Has  she  a  comfortable  place?  Do  you  think  Gov 
ernor  Hamilton  would  let  me  visit  her  ?" 

"It  is  horrible !"  Farnsworth  blurted.  "She's  penned 
up  as  if  she  were  a  dangerous  beast,  the  poor  girl. 
And  that  damned  scoundrel " 

"Son,  son!" 

"Oh,  it's  no  use  to  try,  I  can't  help  it,  Father.  The 
whelp " 

"We  can  converse  more  safely  and  intelligently  if 
we  avoid  profanity,  and  undue  emotion,  my  son.  Now, 
if  you  will  quit  swearing,  I  will,  and  if  you  will  be 
calm,  so  will  I." 

Farnsworth  felt  the  sly  irony  of  this  absurdly  vica 
rious  proposition.  Father  Beret  smiled  with  a  kindly 
twinkle  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  use  profane  language,  Father, 
there's  no  telling  how  much  you  think  in  expletives. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  a  man  who  tumbles  a  poor, 
defenseless  girl  into  prison  and  then  refuses  to  let  her 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       285 

be  decently  cared  for?  How  do  you  express  yourself 
about  him?" 

"My  son,  men  often  do  things  of  which  they  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  I  heard  of  a  young  officer  once  who 
maltreated  a  little  girl  that  he  met  at  night  in  the 
street.  What  evil  he  would  have  done,  had  not  a  pass 
ing  kind-hearted  man  reminded  him  of  his  honor  by  a 
friendly  punch  in  the  ribs,  I  dare  not  surmise." 

"True,  and  your  sarcasm  goes  home  as  hard  as  your 
fist  did,  Father.  I  know  that  I've  been  a  sad  dog  all 
my  life.  Miss  Roussillon  saved  you  by  shooting  me, 
and  I  love  her  for  it.  Lay  on,  Father,  I  deserve  more 
than  you  can  give  me." 

"Surely  you  do,  my  son,  surely  you  do ;  but  my  love 
for  you  will  not  let  me  give  you  pain.  Ah,  we  priests 
have  to  carry  all  men's  loads.  Our  backs  are  broadj 
however,  very  broad,  my  son." 

"And  your  fists  devilish  heavy,  Father,  devilish 
heavy." 

The  gentle  smile  again  flickered  over  the  priest's 
weather-beaten  face  as  he  glanced  sidewise  at  Farns- 
wo.rth  and  said: 

"Sometimes,  sometimes,  my  son,  a  carnal  weapon 
must  break  the  way  for  a  spiritual  one.  But  we  priests 
rarely  have  much  physical  strength;  our  dependence 
is  upon " 

"To  be  sure;  certainly,"  Farnsworth  interrupted, 
rubbing  his  side,  "your  dependence  is  upon  the  first 
thing  that  offers.  I've  had  many  a  blow;  but  yours 
was  the  solidest  that  ever  jarred  my  mortal  frame^ 
Father  Beret" 


286         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

The  twain  began  to  laugh.  There  is  nothing  like  a 
reminiscence  to  stir  up  fresh  mutual  sympathy. 

"If  your  intercostals  were  somewhat  sore  for  a  time, 
on  account  of  a  contact  with  priestly  knuckles,  doubt 
less  there  soon  set  in  a  corresponding  uneasiness  in 
the  region  of  your  conscience.  Such  shocks  are  often 
vigorously  alterative  and  tonic — eh,  my  son?" 

"You  jolted  me  sober,  Father,  and  then  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  But  where  does  all  your  tremen 
dous  strength  lie?  You  don't  look  strong." 

While  speaking  Farnsworth  leaned  near  Father 
Beret  and  grasped  his  arm.  The  young  man  started, 
for  his  fingers,  instead  of  closing  around  a  flabby, 
shrunken  old  man's  limb,  spread  themselves  upon  a 
huge,  knotted  mass  of  iron  muscles.  With  a  quick 
movement  Father  Beret  shook  off  Farnsworth's  hand, 
and  said: 

"I  am  no  Samson,  my  son.  Non  sum  qualis  eram." 
Then,  as  if  dismissing  a  light  subject  for  a  graver 
one,  he  sighed  and  added;  "I  suppose  there  is  nothing 
that  can  be  done  for  little  Alice." 

He  called  the  tall,  strong  girl  "little  Alice,"  and  so 
she  seemed  to  him.  He  could  not,  without  direct  ef 
fort,  think  of  her  as  a  magnificently  maturing  woman. 
She  had  always  been  his  spoiled  pet  child,  perversely 
set  against  the  Holy  Church,  but  dear  to  him  never 
theless. 

"I  came  to  you  to  ask  that  very  question,  Father," 
said  Farnsworth. 

"And  what  do  I  know?     Surely,  my  son,  you  see 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       287 

how  utterly  helpless  an  old  priest  is  against  all  you 
British.  And  besides " 

"Father  Beret,"  Farnsworth  huskily  interrupted,  "is 
there  a  place  that  you  know  of  anywhere  in  which 
Miss  Roussillon  could  be  hidden,  if " 

"My  dear  son." 

"But,  Father,  I  mean  it." 

"Mean  what?  Pardon  an  old  man's  slow  under 
standing.  What  are  you  talking  about,  my  son?" 

Father  Beret  glanced  furtively  about,  then  quickly 
stepped  through  the  doorway,  walked  entirely  around 
the  house  and  came  in  again  before  Farnsworth  could 
respond.  Once  more  seated  on  his  stool  he  added 
interrogatively : 

"Did  you  think  you  heard  something  moving  out 
side?" 

"No." 

"You  were  saying  something  when  I  went  out. 
Pardon  my  interruption." 

Farnsworth  gave  the  priest  a  searching  and  not 
wholly  confiding  look. 

"You  did  not  interrupt  me,  Father  Beret.  I  was 
not  speaking.  Why  are  you  so  watchful?  Are  you 
afraid  of  eavesdroppers?" 

"You  were  speaking  recklessly.  Your  words  were 
incendiary :  ardcntia  verba.  My  son,  you  were  sug 
gesting  a  dangerous  thing.  Your  life  would  scarcely 
satisfy  the  law  were  you  convicted  of  insinuating  such 
treason.  What  if  one  of  your  prowling  guards  had 
overheard  you?  Your  neck  and  mine  might  feel  the 


288         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

halter.  Quod  avertat  dominus."  He  crossed  himself 
and  in  a  solemn  voice  added  in  English : 

"May  the  Lord  forbid!  Ah,  my  son,  we  priests 
protect  those  we  love." 

"And  I,  who  am  not  fit  to  tie  a  priest's  shoe,  do  like 
wise.  Father,  I  love  Alice  Roussillon." 

"Love  is  a  holy  thing,  my  son.  Amare  divinum  est 
ct  humanum." 

"Father  Beret,  can  you  help  me?" 

"Spiritually  speaking,  my  son?" 

"I  mean,  can  you  hide  Mademoiselle  Roussillon  in 
some  safe  place,  if  I  take  her  out  of  the  prison  yonder? 
That's  just  what  I  mean.  Can  you  do  it?" 

"Your  question  is  a  remarkable  one.  Have  you 
thought  upon  it  from  all  directions,  my  son?  Think 
of  your  position,  your  duty  as  an  officer." 

A  shrewd  polemical  expression  beamed  from  Father 
Beret's  eyes,  and  a  very  expert  physiognomist  might 
have  suspected  duplicity  from  certain  lines  about  the 
old  man's  mouth. 

"I  simply  know  that  I  cannot  stand  by  and  see  Alice 
— Mademoiselle  Roussillon,  forced  to  suffer  treat 
ment  too  beastly  for  an  Indian  thief.  That's  the  only 
direction  there  is  for  me  to  look  at  it  from,  and  you 
can  understand  my  feelings  if  you  will;  you  know 
that  very  well,  Father  Beret.  When  a  man  loves  a 
girl,  he  loves  her;  that's  the  whole  thing." 

The  quiet,  inscrutable  half-smile  flickered  once 
more  on  Father  Beret's  face;  but  he  sat  silent  some 
time  with  a  sinewy  forefinger  lying  alongside  his  nose. 
When  at  last  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  of  voice  indica- 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       289 

tive  of  small  interest  in  what  he  was  saying.  His 
words  rambled  to  their  goal  with  the  effect  of  happy 
accident. 

"There  are  places  in  this  neighborhood  in  which  a 
human  being  would  be  as  hard  to  find  as  the  flag  that 
you  and  Governor  Hamilton  have  so  diligently  and 
unsuccessfully  been  in  quest  of  for  the  past  month  or 
two.  Really,  my  son,  this  is  a  mysterious  little  town." 

Farnsworth's  eyes  widened  and  a  flush  rose  in  his 
swarthy  cheeks. 

"Damn  the  flag!"  he  exclaimed.  "Let  it  lie  hidden 
forever ;  what  do  I  care  ?  I  tell  you,  Father  Beret,  that 
Alice  Roussillon  is  in  extreme  danger.  Governor 
Hamilton  means  to  put  some  terrible  punishment  on 
her.  He  has  a  devil's  vindictiveness.  He  showed  it 
to  me  clearly  awhile  ago." 

"You  showed  something  of  the  same  sort  to  me,  once 
upon  a  time,  my  son." 

"Yes,  I  did,  Father  Beret,  and  I  got  a  load  of  slugs 
in  my  shoulder  for  it  from  that  brave  girl's  pistol. 
She  saved  your  life.  Now  I  ask  you  to  help  me  save 
hers;  or,  if  not  her  life,  what  is  infinitely  more,  her 
honor." 

"Her  honor !"  cried  Father  Beret,  leaping  to  his  feet 
so  suddenly  and  with  such  energy  that  the  cabin  shook 
from  base  to  roof.  "What  do  you  say,  Captain  Farns- 
worth?  What  do  you  mean?" 

The  old  man  was  transformed.  His  face  was  terri 
ble  to  see,  with  its  narrow,  burning  eyes  deep  under  the 
shaggy  brows,  its  dark  veins  writhing  snakelike  on 
the  temples  and  forehead,  the  projected  mouth  and 


290         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

chin,  the  hard  lines  of  the  jaws,  the  iron-gray  gleam 
from  all  the  features — he  looked  like  an  aged  tiger 
stiffened  for  a  spring. 

Farnsworth  was  made  of  right  soldierly  stuff;  but 
he  felt  a  distinct  shiver  flit  along  his  back.  His  past 
life  had  not  lacked  thrilling  adventures  and  strangely 
varied  experiences  with  desperate  men.  Usually  he 
met  sudden  emergencies  rather  calmly,  sometimes  with 
phlegmatic  indifference.  This  passionate  outburst  on 
the  priest's  part,  however,  surprised  him  and  awed 
him,  while  it  stirred  his  heart  with  a  profound  sym 
pathy  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  felt  before. 

Father  Beret  mastered  himself  in  a  moment,  and 
passing  his  hand  over  his  face,  as  if  to  brush  away  the 
excitement,  sat  down  again  on  his  stool.  He  appeared 
to  collapse  inwardly. 

"You  must  excuse  the  weakness  of  an  old  man,  my 
son,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  hoarse  and  shaking.  "But 
tell  me  what  is  going  to  be  done  with  Alice.  Your 
words — what  you  said — I  did  not  understand." 

He  rubbed  his  forehead  slowly,  as  one  who  has 
difficulty  in  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"I  do  not  know  what  Governor  Hamilton  means  to 
do,  Father  Beret.  It  will  be  something  devilish,  how 
ever, — something  that  must  not  happen,"  said  Farns 
worth. 

Then  he  recounted  all  that  Hamilton  had  done  and 
said.  He  described  the  dreary  and  comfortless  room 
in  which  Alice  was  confined,  the  miserable  fare  given 
her,  and  how  she  would  be  exposed  to  the  leers  and 
low  remarks  of  the  soldiers.  She  had  alreadv  suffered 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       291 

these  things,  and  now  that  she  could  no  longer  have 
any  protection,  what  was  to  become  of  her?  He  did 
not  attempt  to  overstate  the  case;  but  presented  it 
with  a  blunt  sincerity  which  made  a  powerfully  real 
istic  impression. 

Father  Beret,  like  most  men  of  strong  feeling  who 
have  been  subjected  to  long  years  of  trial,  hardship, 
multitudinous  dangers  and  all  sorts  of  temptation, 
and  who  have  learned  the  lessons  of  self-control, 
had  an  iron  will,  and  also  an  abiding  distrust  of 
weak  men.  He  saw  Farnsworth's  sincerity;  but 
he  had  no  faith  in  his  constancy,  although  satisfied 
that  while  resentment  of  Hamilton's  imperiousness 
lasted,  he  would  doubtless  remain  firm  in  his  pur 
pose  to  aid  Alice.  Let  that  wear  off,  as  in  a  short 
time  it  would,  and  then  what?  The  old  man  studied 
his  companion  with  eyes  that  slowly  resumed 
their  expression  of  smouldering  and  almost  timid 
geniality.  His  priestly  experience  with  desperate  men 
was  demanding  of  him  a  proper  regard  for  that  sub 
tlety  of  procedure  which  had  so  often  compassed 
most  difficult  ends. 

He  listened  in  silence  to  Farnsworth's  story.  When 
it  came  to  an  end  he  began  to  offer  some  but  half  rele 
vant  suggestions  in  the  form  of  indirect  cross-ques 
tions,  by  means  of  which  he  gradually  drew  out  a 
minute  description  of  Alice's  prison,  the  best  way  to 
reach  it,  the  nature  of  its  door-fastenings,  where  the 
key  was  kept,  and  everything,  indeed,  likely  to  be 
helpful  to  one  contemplating  a  jail  delivery.  Farns- 
worth  was  inwardly  delighted.  He  felt  Father 


292         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Beret's  cunning  approach  to  the  central  object  and  his 
crafty  method  of  gathering  details. 

The  shades  of  evening  thickened  in  the  stuffy  cabin 
room  while  the  conversation  went  on.  Father  Beret 
presently  lifted  a  puncheon  in  one  corner  of  the  floor 
and  got  out  a  large  bottle,  which  bore  a  mildewed  and 
faded  French  label,  and  with  it  a  small  iron  cup. 
There  was  just  light  enough  left  to  show  a  brownish 
sparkle  when,  after  popping  out  the  cork,  he  poured 
a  draught  in  the  fresh  cup  and  in  his  own. 

"We  may  think  more  clearly,  my  son,  if  we  taste 
this  old  liquor.  I  have  kept  it  a  long  while  to  offer 
upon  a  proper  occasion.  The  occasion  is  here." 

A  ravishing  bouquet  quickly  imbued  the  air.  It  was 
itself  an  intoxication. 

"The  Brothers  of  St.  Martin  distilled  this  liquor," 
Father  Beret  added,  handing  the  cup  to  Farnsworth, 
"not  for  common  social  drinking,  my  son,  but  for 
times  when  a  man  needs  extraordinary  stimulation. 
It  is  said  to  be  surpassingly  good,  because  St.  Martin 
blessed  the  vine." 

The  doughty  Captain  felt  a  sudden  and  imperious 
thirst  seize  his  throat.  The  liquor  flooded  his  veins 
before  his  lips  touched  the  cup.  He  had  been  abstain 
ing  lately;  now  his  besetting  appetite  rushed  upon 
him.  At  one  gulp  he  took  in  the  fiery  yet  smooth  and 
captivating  draught.  Nor  did  he  notice  that  Father 
Beret,  instead  of  joining  him  in  the  potation,  merely 
lifted  his  cup  and  set  it  down  again,  smacking  his  lips 
with  gusto. 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       293 

There  followed  a  silence,  during  which  the  aromatic 
breath  of  the  bottle  increased  its  dangerous  fascina 
tion.  Then  Father  Beret  again  filled  Farnsworth's 
cup  and  said : 

"Ah,  the  blessed  monks,  little  thought  they  that  their 
matchless  brew  would  ever  be  sipped  in  a  poor  mis 
sionary's  hut  on  the  Wabash !  But,  after  all,  my  son, 
why  not  here  as  well  as  in  sunny  France  ?  Our  object 
justifies  any  impropriety  of  time  and  place." 

"You  are  right,  Father.  I  drink  to  our  object.  Yes, 
I  say,  to  our  object." 

In  fact,  the  drinking  preceded  his  speech,  and  his 
tongue  already  had  a  loop  in  it.  The  liquor  stole 
through  him,  a  mist  of  bewildering  and  enchanting  in 
fluence.  The  third  cup  broke  his  sentences  into  unin 
telligible  fragments;  the  fourth  made  his  underjaw 
sag  loosely,  the  fifth  and  sixth,  taken  in  close  succes 
sion,  tumbled  him  limp  on  the  floor,  where  he  slept 
blissfully  all  night  long,  snugly  covered  with  some  of 
Father  Beret's  bed  clothes. 

"Per  caswm  obliquum,  et  per  indirectum,"  muttered 
the  priest,  when  he  had  returned  the  bottle  and  cup  to 
their  hiding-place.  "The  end  justifies  the  means. 
Sleep  well,  my  son.  Ah,  little  Alice,  little  Alice,  your 
old  Father  will  try — will  try!" 

He  fumbled  along  the  wall  in  the  dark  until  he  found 
the  rapier,  which  he  took  down;  then  he  went  out  and 
sat  for  some  time  motionless  beside  the  door,  while 
the  clouds  thickened  overhead.  It  was  late  when  he 
arose  and  glided  away  shadow-like  toward  the  fort, 
over  which  the  night  hung  black,  chill  and  drearily 


294         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

silent.  The  moon  was  still  some  hours  high,  but 
smothered  by  the  clouds;  a  fog  slowly  drifted  from 
the  river. 

Meantime  Hamilton  and  Helm  had  spent  a  part  of 
the  afternoon  and  evening,  as  usual,  at  cards.  Helm 
broke  off  the  game  and  went  to  his  quarters  rather 
early  for  him,  leaving  the  Governor  alone  and  in  a 
bad  temper,  because  Farnsworth,  when  he  had  sent 
for  him,  could  not  be  found.  Three  times  his  orderly 
returned  in  as  many  hours  with  the  same  report;  the 
Captain  had  not  been  seen  or  heard  of.  Naturally  this 
sudden  and  complete  disappearance,  immediately 
after  the  reprimand,  suggested  to  Hamilton  an  un 
pleasant  possibility.  What  if  Farnsworth  had  deserted 
him?  Down  deep  in  his  heart  he  was  conscious  that 
the  young  man  had  good  cause  for  almost  any  desper 
ate  action.  To  lose  Captain  Farnsworth,  however, 
would  be  just  now  a  calamity.  The  Indians  were  drift 
ing  over  rapidly  to  the  side  of  the  Americans,  and 
every  day  showed  that  the  French  could  not  long  be 
kept  quiet. 

Hamilton  sat  for  some  time  after  Helm's  departure 
thinking  over  what  he  now  feared  was  a  foolish  mis 
take.  Presently  he  buckled  on  Alice's  rapier,  which 
he  had  lately  been  wearing  as  his  own,  and  went  out 
into  the  main  area  of  the  stockade.  A  sentinel  was 
tramping  to  and  fro  at  the  gate,  where  a  hazy  lantern 
shone.  The  night  was  breathless  and  silent.  Ham 
ilton  approached  the  soldier  on  duty  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  seen  Captain  Farnsworth,  and  receiving  a  nega- 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       295 

tive  reply,  turned  about  puzzled  and  thoughtful  to  walk 
back  and  forth  in  the  chill,  foggy  air. 

Presently  a  faint  yellow  light  attracted  his  atten 
tion.  It  shone  through  a  porthole  in  an  upper  room 
of  the  block-house  at  the  farther  angle  of  the  stockade. 
In  fact,  Alice  was  reading  by  a  sputtering  lamp  a  book 
Farnsworth  had  sent  her,  a  volume  of  Ronsard  that 
he  had  picked  up  in  Canada.  Hamilton  made  his  way 
in  that  direction,  at  first  merely  curious  to  know  who 
was  burning  oil  so  late ;  but  after  a  few  paces  he  recog 
nized  where  the  light  came  from,  and  instantly  sus 
pected  that  Captain  Farnsworth  was  there.  Indeed 
he  felt  sure  of  it.  Somehow  he  could  not  regard  Alice 
as  other  than  a  saucy  hoyden,  incapable  of  womanly 
virtue.  His  experience  with  the  worst  element  of 
Canadian  French  life  and  his  peculiar  cast  of  mind 
and  character  colored  his  impression  of  her.  He  meas 
ured  her  by  the  women  with  whom  the  coureurs  de 
bois  and  half-breed  trappers  consorted  in  Detroit  and 
at  the  posts  eastward  to  Quebec. 

Alice,  unable  to  sleep,  had  sought  forgetfulness  of 
her  bitter  captivity  in  the  old  poet's  charming  lyrics. 
She  sat  on  the  floor,  some  blankets  and  furs  drawn 
around  her,  the  book  on  her  lap,  the  stupidly  dull 
lamp  hanging  beside  her  on  a  part  of  the  swivel.  Her 
hair  lay  loose  over  her  neck  and  shoulders  and  shim 
mered  around  her  face  with  a  cloud-like  effect,  giving 
to  the  features  in  their  repose  a  setting  that  intensified 
their  sweetness  and  sadness.  In  a  very  low  but  dis 
tinct  voice  she  was  reading,  with  a  slightly  quavering 
intonation : 


296        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Mignonne,   aliens  voir  si  la   rose, 
Que  ce  matin  avoit  desclose 
Sa  robe  de  pourpre  au  soleil," 

when  Hamilton,  after  stealthily  mounting  the  rough 
stairway  which  led  to  her  door,  peeped  in  through  a 
space  between  the  slabs  and  felt  a  stroke  of  disappoint 
ment,  seeing  at  a  glance  that  Farnsworth  was  not 
there.  He  gazed  for  some  time,  not  without  a  sense 
of  .villainy,  while  she  continued  her  sweetly  monoton 
ous  reading.  If  his  heart  had  been  as  hard  as  the  iron 
swivel-balls  that  lay  beside  Alice,  he  must  still  have 
felt  a  thrill  of  something  like  tender  sympathy.  She 
now  showed  no  trace  of  the  vivacious  sauciness  which 
had  heretofore  always  marked  her  features  when  she 
was  in  his  presence.  A  dainty  gentleness,  touched 
with  melancholy,  gave  to  her  face  an  appealing  look 
all  the  more  powerful  on  account  of  its  unconscious 
simplicity  of  expression. 

The  man  felt  an  impulse  pure  and  noble,  which 
would  have  borne  him  back  down  the  ladder  and  away 
from  the  building,  had  not  a  stronger  one  set  boldly 
in  the  opposite  direction.  There  was  a  short  struggle 
with  the  seared  remnant  of  his  better  nature,  and  then 
he  tried  to  open  the  door;  but  it  was  locked. 

Alice  heard  the  slight  noise  and  breaking  off  her 
reading  turned  to  look.  Hamilton  made  another  effort 
to  enter  before  he  recollected  that  the  wooden  key,  or 
notched  lever,  that  controlled  the  cumbrous  wooden 
lock,  hung  on  a  peg  beside  the  door.  He  felt  for  it 
along  the  wall,  and  soon  laid  his  hand  on  it.  Then 
again  he  peeped  through  to  see  Alice,  who  was  now 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       297 

standing  upright  near  the  swivel.  She  had  thrown 
her  hair  back  from  her  face  and  neck ;  the  lamp's  flick 
ering  light  seemed  suddenly  to  have  magnified  her 
stature  and  enhanced  her  beauty.  Her  book  lay  on 
the  tumbled  wraps  at  her  feet,  and  in  either  hand  she 
grasped  a  swivel-shot. 

Hamilton's  combative  disposition  came  to  the  aid  of 
his  baser  passion  when  he  saw  once  more  a  defiant 
flash  from  his  prisoner's  face.  It  was  easy  for  him 
to  be  fascinated  by  opposition.  Helm  had  profited  by 
this  trait  as  much  as  others  had  suffered  by  it;  but,  in 
the  case  of  Alice,  Hamilton's  mingled  resentment  and 
admiration  were  but  a  powerful  irritant  to  the  coarsest 
and  most  dangerous  side  of  his  nature. 

After  some  fumbling  and  delay  he  fitted  the  key 
with  a  steady  hand  and  moved  the  wooden  bolt  creak 
ing  and  jolting  from  its  slot.  Then  flinging  the  clumsy 
door  wide  open,  he  stepped  in. 

Alice  started  when  she  recognized  the  midnight  in 
truder,  and  a  second  deeper  look  into  his  countenance 
made  her  brave  heart  recoil,  while  with  a  sinking 
sensation  her  breath  almost  stopped.  It  was  but  a 
momentary  weakness,  however,  followed  by  vigorous 
reaction. 

"What  are  you  here  for,  sir?"  she  demanded. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  am  neither  a  burglar  nor  a  murderer,  Mademoi 
selle,"  he  responded,  lifting  his  hat  and  bowing,  with 
a  smile  not  in  the  least  reassuring. 

"You  look  like  both.     Stop  where  you  are!" 


298         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"Not  so  loud,  my  dear  Miss  Roussillon;  I  am  not 
deaf.  And  besides  the  garrison  needs  to  sleep." 

"Stop,  sir;  not  another  step." 

She  poised  herself,  leaning  slightly  backward,  and 
held  the  iron  ball  in  her  right  hand  ready  to  throw  it 
at  him. 

He  halted  still  smiling  villainously. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  assure  you  that  your  excitement 
is  quite  unnecessary.  I  am  not  here  to  harm  you." 

"You  cannot  harm  me,  you  cowardly  wretch!" 

"Humph!  Pride  goes  before  a  fall,  wench,"  he 
retorted,  taking  a  half-step  backward.  Then  a  thought 
arose  in  his  mind  which  added  a  new  shade  to  the  re 
pellent  darkness  of  his  countenance. 

"Miss  Roussillon,"  he  said  in  English  and  with  a 
changed  voice,  which  seemed  to  grow  harder,  each 
word  deliberately  emphasized,  "I  have  come  to  break 
some  bad  news  to  you." 

"You  would  scarcely  bring  me  good  news,  sir,  and 
I  am  not  curious  to  hear  the  bad." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  gazing  at  her  with 
the  sort  of  admiration  from  which  a  true  woman  draws 
away  appalled.  He  saw  how  she  loathed  him,  saw 
how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  get  a  line  nearer  to 
her  by  any  turn  of  force  or  fortune.  Brave,  high- 
headed,  strong  as  a  young  leopard,  pure  and  sweet  as 
a  rose,  she  stood  before  him  fearless,  even  aggressive, 
showing  him  by  every  line  of  her  face  and  form  that 
she  felt  her  infinite  superiority  and  meant  to  maintain 
it.  Her  whole  personal  expression  told  him  he  was 
defeated ;  therefore  he  quickly  seized  upon  a  sugges- 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       299 

tion  caught  from  a  transaction  with  Long-Hair,  who 
had  returned  a  few  hours  before  from  his  pursuit  of 
Beverley. 

"It  pains  me,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Roussillon,  to  tell 
you  what  will  probably  grieve  you  deeply,"  he  pres 
ently  added;  "but  I  have  not  been  unaware  of  your 
tender  interest  in  Lieutenant  Beverley,  and  when  I 
had  bad  news  from  him,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  in 
form  you." 

He  paused,  feeling  with  a  devil's  satisfaction  the 
point  of  his  statement  go  home  to  the  girl's  heart. 

The  wind  was  beginning  to  blow  outside,  shaking 
open  the  dark  clouds  and  letting  gleams  of  moonlight 
flicker  on  the  thinning  fog.  A  ghostly  ray  came 
through  a  crack  between  the  logs  and  lit  Alice's  face 
with  a  pathetic  wanness.  She  moved  her  lips  as  if 
speaking,  but  Hamilton  heard  no  sound. 

"The  Indian,  Long-Hair,  whom  I  sent  upon  Lieu 
tenant  Beverley 's  trail,  reported  to  me  this  afternoon 
that  his  pursuit  had  been  quite  successful.  He  caught 
his  game." 

Alice's  voice  came  to  her  now.  She  drew  in  a  quiv 
ering  breath  of  relief. 

"Then  he  is  here — he  is — you  have  him  a  prisoner 
again  ?" 

"A  part  of  him,  Miss  Roussillon.  Enough  to  be 
quite  sure  that  there  is  one  traitor  who  will  trouble 
his  king  no  more.  Mr.  Long-Hair  brought  in  the 
Lieutenant's  scalp." 

Alice  received  this  horrible  statement  in  silence;  but 
her  face  blanched  and  she  stood  as  if  frozen  by  the 


300        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

shock.  The  shifty  moon-glimmer  and  the  yellow  glow 
of  the  lamp  showed  Hamilton  to  what  an  extent  his 
devilish  cruelty  hurt  her,  and  somehow  it  chilled  him 
as  if  by  reflection;  but  he  could  not  forego  another 
thrust. 

"He  deserved  hanging,  and  would  have  got  it  had 
he  been  brought  to  me  alive.  So  after  all,  you  should 
be  satisfied.  He  escaped  my  vengeance  and  Long- 
Hair  got  his  pay.  You  see  I  am  the  chief  sufferer." 

These  words,  however,  fell  without  effect  upon  the 
girl's  ears,  in  which  was  booming  the  awful,  storm- 
like  roar  of  her  excitement.  She  did  not  see  her 
persecutor  standing  there;  her  vision,  unhindered  by 
walls  and  distance,  went  straight  away  to  a  place  in 
the  wilderness,  where  all  mangled  and  disfigured  Bev- 
erley  lay  dead.  A  low  cry  broke  from  her  lips;  she 
dropped  the  heavy  swivel-balls ;  and  then,  like  a  bird, 
swiftly,  with  a  rustling  swoop,  she  went  past  Hamilton 
and  down  the  stair. 

For  perhaps  a  full  minute  the  man  stood  there  mo 
tionless,  stupefied,  amazed;  and  when  at  length  he 
recovered  himself,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  fol 
lowed  her.  Everything  seemed  to  hinder  him.  When 
he  reached  the  open  air,  however,  he  quickly  regained 
his  activity  of  both  mind  and  body,  and  looked  in  all 
directions.  The  clouds  were  breaking  into  parallel 
masses  with  streaks  of  sky  between.  The  moon  hang 
ing  aslant  against  the  blue  peeped  forth  just  in  time 
2o  show  him  a  flying  figure  which,  even  while  he 
looked,  reached  the  postern,  opened  it  and  slipped 
through. 


Father  Beret's  Old  Battle       301 

With  but  a  breath  of  hesitation  between  giving  the 
alarm  and  following  Alice  silently  and  alone,  he  chose 
the  latter.  He  was  a  swift  runner  and  light  footed. 
With  a  few  bounds  he  reached  the  little  gate,  which 
was  still  oscillating  on  its  hinges,  darted  through  and 
away,  straining  every  muscle  in  desperate  pursuit, 
gaining  rapidly  in  the  race,  which  bore  eastward  along 
the  course  twice  before  chosen  by  Alice  in  leaving  the 
stockade. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  MARCH  THROUGH  COLD  WATER 

On  the  fifth  day  of  February,  1779,  Colonel  George 
Rogers  Clark  led  an  army  across  the  Kaskaskia  River 
and  camped.  This  was  the  first  step  in  his  march 
towards  the  Wabash.  An  army !  Do  not  smile.  Fewer 
than  two  hundred  men,  it  is  true,  answered  the  roll- 
call,  when  Father  Gibault  lifted  the  Cross  and  blessed 
ihem;  but  every  name  told  off  by  the  company  ser 
geants  belonged  to  a  hero,  and  every  voice  making  re 
sponse  struck  a  full  note  in  the  chorus  of  freedom's 
morning  song.. 

It  was  an  army,  small  indeed,  but  yet  an  army ;  even 
though  so  rudely  equipped  that,  could  we  now  see  it 
before  us,  we  might  wonder  of  what  use  it  could  possi 
bly  be  in  a  military  way. 

We  should  nevertheless  hardly  expect  that  a  hun 
dred  and  seventy  of  our  best  men,  even  if  furnished 
with  the  latest  and  most  deadly  engines  of  destruction, 
could  do  what  those  pioneers  cheerfully  undertook 
and  gloriously  accomplished  in  the  savage  wilderness 
which  was  to  be  the  great  central  area  of  the  United 
States  of  America. 

We  look  back  with  a  shiver  of  awe  at  the  three  hun 
dred  Spartans  for  whom  Simonides  composed  his 
matchless  epitaph.  They  wrought  and  died  gloriously ; 
that  was  Greek.  The  one  hundred  and  seventy  men, 

302 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     303 

who,  led  by  the  backwoodsman,  Clark,  made  conquest 
of  an  empire's  area  for  freedom  in  the  west,  wrought 
and  lived  gloriously;  that  was  American.  It  is  well  to 
bear  in  mind  this  distinction  by  which  our  civilization 
separates  itself  from  that  of  old  times.  Our  heroism 
has  always  been  of  life — our  heroes  have  conquered 
and  lived  to  see  the  effect  of  conquest.  We  have  fought 
all  sorts  of  wars  and  have  never  yet  felt  defeat.  Wash 
ington,  Jackson,  Taylor,  Grant,  all  lived  to  enjoy,  after 
successful  war,  a  triumphant  peace.  "These  Ameri 
cans,"  said  a  witty  Frenchman,  "are  either  enormously 
lucky,  or  possessed  of  miraculous  vitality.  You  rarely 
kill  them  in  battle,  and  if  you  wound  them  their 
wounds  are  never  mortal.  Their  history  is  but  a  chain 
of  impossibilities  easily  accomplished.  Their  under 
takings  have  been  without  preparation,  their  successes 
in  the  nature  of  stupendous  accidents."  Such  a  state 
ment  may  appear  critically  sound  from  a  Gallic  point 
of  view;  but  it  leaves  out  the  dominant  element  of 
American  character,  namely,  heroic  efficiency.  From 
the  first  we  have  had  the  courage  to  undertake,  the 
practical  common  sense  which  overcomes  the  lack  of 
technical  training,  and  the  vital  force  which  never 
flags  under  the  stress  of  adversity. 

Clark  knew,  when  he  set  out  on  his  march  to  Vin- 
cennes,  that  he  was  not  indulging  a  visionary  impulse. 
The  enterprise  was  one  that  called  for  all  that  man 
hood  could  endure,  but  not  more.  With  the  genius  of 
a  born  leader  he  measured  his  task  by  his  means.  He 
knew  his  own  courage  and  fortitude,  and  understood 
the  best  capacity  of  his  men.  He  had  genius ;  that  is, 


304        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

h«  possessed  the  secret  of  extracting  from  himself  and 
from  his  followers  the  last  refinement  of  devotion  te 
purpose.  There  was  a  certainty,  from  first  to  last, 
that  effort  would  not  flag  at  any  point  short  of  the  top 
most  possible  strain. 

The  great  star  of  America  was  no  more  than  a  nebu 
lous  splendor  on  the  horizon  in  1779.  It  was  a  new 
world  forming  by  the  law  of  youth.  The  men  who 
bore  the  burdens  of  its  exacting  life  were  mostly  stal 
wart  striplings  who,  before  the  down  of  adolescence 
fairly  sprouted  on  their  chins,  could  swing  the  ax, 
drive  a  plow,  close  with  a  bear  or  kill  an  Indian.  Clark 
was  not  yet  tv/enty-seven  when  he  made  his  famous 
campaign.  A  tall,  brawny  youth,  whose  frontier  ex 
perience  had  enriched  a  native  character  of  the  best 
quality,  he  marched  on  foot  at  the  head  of  his  little 
column,  and  was  first  to  test  every  opposing  danger. 
Was  there  a  stream  to  wade  or  swim  ?  Clark  enthusi 
astically  shouted,  "Come  on !"  and  in  he  plunged.  Was 
there  a  lack  of  food?  "I'm  not  hungry,"  he  cried. 
"Help  yourselves,  men !"  Had  some  poor  soldier  lost 
his  blanket  ?  "Mine  is  in  my  way,"  said  Clark.  "Take 
it,  I'm  glad  to  get  rid  of  it!"  His  men  loved  him, 
and  would  die  rather  than  fall  short  of  his  expecta 
tions. 

The  march  before  them  lay  over  a  magnificent  plain, 
mostly  prairie,  rich  as  the  delta  of  the  Nile,  but  ex 
tremely  difficult  to  traverse.  The  distance,  as  the 
route  led,  was  about  a  hundred  and  seventy  miles.  On 
account  of  an  open  and  rainy  winter  all  the  basins  and 
flat  lands  were  inundated,  often  presenting  leagues  of 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     305 

water  ranging  in  depth  from  a  few  inches  to  three  or 
four  feet.  Cold  winds  blew,  sometimes  with  spits  of 
snow  and  dashes  of  sleet,  while  thin  ice  formed  on  the 
ponds  and  sluggish  streams.  By  day  progress  meant 
wading  ankle-deep,  knee-deep,  breast-deep,  with  an 
occasional  spurt  of  swimming.  By  night  the  brave 
fellows  had  to  sleep,  if  sleep  they  could,  on  the  cold 
ground  in  soaked  clothing  under  water-heavy  blankets. 
They  flung  the  leagues  behind  them,  however,  cheer 
fully  stimulating  one  another  by  joke  and  challenge, 
defying  all  the  bitterness  of  weather,  all  the  bitings 
of  hunger,  all  the  toil,  danger  and  deprivation  of  a 
trackless  and  houseless  wilderness,  looking  only  east 
ward,  following  their  youthful  and  intrepid  com 
mander  to  one  of  the  most  valuable  victories  gained  by 
American  soldiers  during  the  War  of  the  Revolution. 

Colonel  Clark  understood  perfectly  the  strategic  im 
portance  of  Vincennes  as  a  post  commanding  the  Wa- 
bash,  and  as  a  base  of  communication  with  the  many 
Indian  tribes  north  of  the  Ohio  and  east  of  the  Mis 
sissippi.  Francis  Vigo  (may  his  name  never  fade!) 
had  brought  him  a  comprehensive  and  accurate  report 
of  Hamilton's  strength  and  the  condition  of  the  fort 
and  garrison.  This  information  confirmed  his  belief 
that  it  would  be  possible  not  only  to  capture  Vincennes, 
but  Detroit  as  well. 

Just  seven  days  after  the  march  began,  the  little  army 
encamped  for  a  night's  rest  at  the  edge  of  a  wood ; 
and  here,  just  after  nightfall,  when  the  fires  were 
burning  merrily  and  the  smell  of  broiling  buffalo  steaks 
burdened  the  damp  air,  a  wizzened  old  man  suddenly 


306        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

appeared,  how  or  from  where  nobody  had  observed. 
He  was  dirty  and  in  every  way  disreputable  in  ap 
pearance,  looking  like  an  animated  mummy,  bearing 
a  long  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  walking  with  the 
somewhat  halting  activity  of  a  very  old,  yet  vivacious 
and  energetic  simian.  Of  course  it  was  Oncle  Jazon, 
"Oncle  Jazon  sul  generis"  as  Father  Beret  had  dubbed 
him. 

"Well,  here  I  am !"  he  cried,  approaching  the  fire  by 
which  Colonel  Clark  and  some  of  his  officers  were 
cooking  supper,  "but  ye  can't  guess  in  a  mile  o'  who 
I  am  to  save  yer  livers  and  lights." 

He  danced  a  few  stiff  steps,  which  made  the  water 
gush  out  of  his  tattered  moccasins,  then  doffed  his  non 
descript  cap  and  nodded  his  scalpless  head  in  saluta 
tion  to  the  commander. 

Clark  looked  inquiringly  at  him,  while  the  old  fellow 
grimaced  and  rubbed  his  shrunken  chin. 

"I  smelt  yer  fat  a  fryin'  somepin  like  a  mile  away, 
an'  it  set  my  in'ards  to  grumblin'  for  a  snack;  so  I  jes' 
thought  I'd  drap  in  on  ye  an'  chaw  wittles  wi'  ye." 

"Your  looks  are  decidedly  against  you,"  remarked 
the  Colonel  with  a  dry  smile.  He  had  recognized 
Oncle  Jazon  after  a  little  sharp  scrutiny.  "I  suppose, 
however,  that  we  can  let  you  gnaw  the  bones  after 
we've  got  off  the  meat" 

'Thank'ee,  thank'ee,  plenty  good.  A  feller  'at's  as 
hongry  as  I  am  kin  go  through  a  bone  like  a  feesh 
through  water." 

Clark  laughed  and  said: 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     307 

"I  don't  see  any  teeth  that  you  have  worth  mention 
ing,  but  your  gums  may  be  unusually  sharp." 

"Ya-a-s,  'bout  as  sharp  as  yer  wit,  Colonel  Clark, 
an'  sharper'n  yer  eyes,  a  long  shot.  Ye  don't  know  me, 
do  ye?  Take  ernother  squint  at  me,  an'  see'f  ye  kin 
'member  a  good  lookin'  man !" 

"You  have  somewhat  the  appearance  of  an  old  scamp 
by  the  name  of  Jazon  that  formerly  loafed  around  with 
a  worthless  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  used  to  run  from 
every  Indian  he  saw  down  yonder  in  Kentucky."  Clark 
held  out  his  hand  and  added  cordially: 

"How  are  you,  Jazon,  my  old  friend,  and  where 
upon  earth  have  you  come  from?" 

Oncle  Jazon  pounced  upon  the  hand  and  gripped  it 
in  his  own  knotted  fingers,  gazing  delightedly  up  into 
Clark's  bronzed  and  laughing  face. 

"Where'd  I  come  frum?  I  come  frum  ever'wheres. 
Fust  time  I  ever  got  lost  in  all  my  born  days.  I've 
been  a  trompin'  'round  in  the  water  seems  like  a  week, 
crazy  as  a  pizened  rat,  not  a  knowin'  north  f 'om  south, 
ner  my  big  toe  f'om  a  turnip!  Who's  got  some  to- 
backer?" 

Oncle  Jazon's  story,  when  presently  he  told  it,  in 
terested  Clark  deeply.  In  the  first  place  he  was  glad 
to  hear  that  Simon  Kenton  had  once  more  escaped 
from  the  Indians;  and  the  news  from  Beverley,  al 
though  bad  enough,  left  room  for  hope.  Frontiersmen 
always  regarded  the  chances  better  than  even,  so  long 
as  there  was  life.  Oncle  Jazon,  furthermore,  had 
much  to  tell  about  the  situation  at  Vincennes,  the  true 
feeling  of  the  French  inhabitants,  the  lukewarm 


308        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

friendship  of  the  larger  part  of  the  Indians  for  Hamil 
ton,  and,  indeed,  everything  that  Clark  wished  to  know 
regarding  the  possibilities  of  success  in  his  arduous 
undertaking.  The  old  man's  advent  cheered  the  whole 
camp.  He  soon  found  acquaintances  and  friends 
among  the  French  volunteers  from  Kaskaskia,  with 
whom  he  exchanged  Creole  gestures  and  chatter  with 
a  vivacity  apparently  inexhaustible.  He  and  Kenton 
had,  with  wise  judgement,  separated  on  escaping  from 
the  Indian  camp,  Kenton  striking  out  for  Kentucky, 
while  Oncle  Jazon  went  towards  Kaskaskia. 

The  information  that  Beverley  would  be  shot  as  soon 
as  he  was  returned  to  Hamilton,  caused  Colonel  Clark 
serious  worry  of  mind.  Not  only  the  fact  that  Bever 
ley,  who  had  been  a  charming  friend  and  a  most  gal 
lant  officer,  was  now  in  such  imminent  danger,  but  the 
impression  (given  by  Oncle  Jazon's  account)  that  he 
had  broken  his  parole,  was  deeply  painful  to  the  brave 
and  scrupulously  honorable  commander.  Still,  friend 
ship  rose  above  regret,  and  Clark  resolved  to  push  his 
little  column  forward  all  the  more  rapidly,  hoping  to 
arrive  in  time  to  prevent  the  impending  execution. 

Next  morning  the  march  was  resumed  at  the  break 
of  dawn;  but  a  swollen  stream  caused  some  hours  of 
delay,  during  which  Beverley  himself  arrived  from 
the  rear,  a  haggard  and  weirdly  unkempt  apparition. 
He  had  been  for  three  days  following  hard  on  the 
army's  track,  which  he  came  to  far  westward.  Oncle 
Jazon  saw  him  first  in  the  distance,  and  his  old  but 
educated  eyes  made  no  mistake. 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     309 

"Yander's  that  youngster  Beverley,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Ef  it  ain't  I'm  a  squaw !" 

Nor  did  he  parley  further  on  the  subject;  but  set 
off  at  a  rickety  trot  to  meet  and  assist  the  fagged  and 
excited  young  man. 

Clark  had  given  Oncle  Jazon  his  flask,  which  con 
tained  a  few  gills  of  whisky.  This  was  the  first  thing 
offered  to  Beverley,  who  wisely  took  but  a  swallow. 
Oncle  Jazon  was  so  elated  that  he  waved  his  cap  on 
high,  and  unconsciously  falling  into  French,  yelled  in 
a  piercing  voice: 

"Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!  Vive  le  banniere  d' Alice 
Roussillon!" 

Seeing  Beverley  reminded  him  of  Alice  and  the  flag. 
As  for  Beverley,  the  sentiment  braced  him,  and  the 
beloved  name  brimmed  his  heart  with  sweetness. 

Clark  went  to  meet  them  as  they  came  in.  He  hugged 
the  gaunt  Lieutenant  with  genuine  fervor  of  joy, 
while  Oncle  Jazon  ran  around  them  making  a  series 
of  grotesque  capers.  The  whole  command,  hearing 
Oncle  Jazon's  patriotic  words,  set  up  a  wild  shouting 
on  the  spur  of  a  general  impression  that  Beverley  came 
as  a  messenger  bearing  glorious  news  from  Washing 
ton's  army  in  the  east. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Clark  when  he  found  out  that 
his  favorite  Lieutenant  had  not  broken  his  parole;  but 
had  instead  boldly  resurrendered  himself,  declaring 
the  obligation  no  longer  binding,  and  notifying  Ham 
ilton  of  his  intention  to  go  away  with  the  purpose  of 
returning  and  destroying  him  and  his  command.  Clark 
laughed  heartily  when  this  explanation  brought  out 


Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Beverley's  tender  interest  in  Alice ;  but  he  sympathized 
cordially;  for  he  himself  knew  what  love  is. 

Although  Beverley  was  half  starved  and  still  suffer 
ing  from  the  kicks  and  blows  given  him  by  Long-Hair 
and  his  warriors,  his  exhausting  run  on  the  trail  of 
Clark  and  his  band  had  not  worked  him  serious  harm. 
All  of  the  officers  and  men  did  their  utmost  to  serve 
him.  He  was  feasted  without  stint  and  furnished  with 
everything  that  the  scant  supply  of  clothing  on  the 
pack  horses  could  afford  for  his  comfort.  He  promptly 
asked  for  an  assignment  to  duty  in  his  company  and 
took  his  place  with  such  high  enthusiasm  that  his  com 
panions  regarded  him  with  admiring  wonder.  None 
of  them  save  Clark  and  Oncle  Jazon  suspected  that 
love  for  a  fair-haired  girl  yonder  in  Vincennes  was 
the  secret  of  his  amazing  zeal  and  intrepidity. 

In  one  respect  Clark's  expedition  was  sadly  lacking 
in  its  equipment  for  the  march.  It  had  absolutely 
no  means  of  transporting  adequate  supplies.  The 
pack-horses  were  not  able  to  carry  more  than  a  little 
extra  ammunition,  a  few  articles  of  clothing,  some 
simple  cooking  utensils  and  such  tools  as  were  needed 
in  improvising  rafts  and  canoes.  Consequently,  al 
though  buffalo  and  deer  were  sometimes  plentiful,  they 
furnished  no  lasting  supply  of  meat,  because  it  could 
not  be  transported ;  and  as  the  army  neared  Vincennes 
wild  animals  became  scarce,  so  that  the  men  began  to 
suffer  from  hunger  when  within  but  a  few  days  of 
their  journey's  end. 

Clark  made  almost  superhuman  efforts  in  urging  for 
ward  his  chilled,  water-soaked,  foot-sore  command; 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     311 

and  when  hunger  added  its  torture  to  the  already  dis 
heartening  conditions,  his  courage  and  energy  seemed 
to  burn  stronger  and  brighter.  Beverley  was  always 
at  his  side  ready  to  undertake  any  task,  accept  any 
risk;  his  ardor  made  his  face  glow,  and  he  seemed  to 
thrive  upon  hardships.  The  two  men  were  a  source 
of  inspiration — their  followers  could  not  flag  and  hesi 
tate  while  under  the  influence  of  their  example. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  long  march  a  decided  fall  of 
temperature  added  ice  to  the  water  through  which  our 
dauntless  patriots  waded  and  swam  for  miles.  The 
wind  shifted  northwesterly,  taking  on  a  searching  chill. 
Each  gust,  indeed,  seemed  to  shoot  wintry  splinters 
into  the  very  marrow  of  the  men's  bones.  The  weaker 
ones  began  to  show  the  approach  of  utter  exhaustion 
just  at  the  time  when  a  final  spurt  of  unflinching  power 
was  needed.  True,  they  struggled  heroically;  but 
nature  was  nearing  the  inexorable  limit  of  endurance. 
Without  food,  which  there  was  no  prospect  of  gettingf 
collapse  was  sure  to  come. 

Standing  nearly  waist-deep  in  freezing  water  and 
looking  out  upon  the  muddy,  sea-like  flood  that 
stretched  far  away  to  the  channel  of  the  Wabash  and 
beyond,  Clark  turned  to  Beverley  and  said,  speaking 
low,  so  as  not  to  be  overheard  by  any  other  of  his  offi 
cers  or  men : 

"Is  it  possible,  Lieutenant  Beverley,  that  we  are  to 
fail,  with  Vincennes  almost  in  sight  of  us?" 

'£No,  sir,,  it  is  not  possible,"  was  the  firm  reply. 
"Nothing  must,  nothing  can  stop  us.  LOOK  at  that 
brave  child !  He  sets  the  heroic  example." 


312         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Beverley  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  at  a  boy  but  fourteen 
years  old,  who  was  using  his  drum  as  a  float  to  bear 
him  up  while  he  courageously  swam  beside  the  men. 

Clark's  clouded  face  cleared  once  more.  "You  are 
right,"  he  said,  "come  on !  we  must  win  or  die." 

"Sergeant  Dewit,"  he  added,  turning  to  an  enor 
mously  tail  and  athletic  man  near  by,  "take  that  little 
drummer  and  his  drum  on  your  shoulder  and  lead  the 
way.  And,  sergeant,  make  him  pound  that  drum  like 
the  devil  beating  tan-bark!" 

The  huge  man  caught  the  spirit  of  his  commander's 
order.  In  a  twinkling  he  had  the  boy  astride  of  his 
neck  with  the  kettle-drum  resting  on  his  head,  and 
then  the  rattling  music  began.  Clark  followed,  point 
ing  onward  with  his  sword.  The  half  frozen  and  tot 
tering  soldiers  sent  up  a  shout  that  went  back  to  where 
Captain  Bowman  was  bringing  up  the  rear  under  or 
ders  to  shoot  every  man  that  straggled  or  shrank  from 
duty. 

Now  came  a  time  when  not  a  mouthful  of  food  was 
left.  A  whole  day  they  floundered  on,  starving,  grow 
ing  fainter  at  every  step,  the  temperature  falling,  the 
ice  thickening.  They  camped  on  high  land;  and  next 
morning  they  heard  Hamilton's  distant  sunrise  gun 
boom  over  the  water. 

"One  half-ration  for  the  men,"  said  Clark,  looking 
disconsolately  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  had 
come.  "Just  five  mouthfuls  apiece,  even,  and  I'll  have 
Hamilton  and  his  fort  within  forty-eight  hours." 

"We  will  have  the  provisions,  Colonel,  or  I  will  die 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     313 

trying  to  get  them,"   Beverley   responded.     "Depend 
upon  me." 

They  had  constructed  some  canoes  in  which  to  trans 
port  the  weakest  of  the  men. 

"I  will  take  a  dugout  and  some  picked  fellows.  We 
<vdll  pull  to  the  wood  yonder,  and  there  we  shall  find 
some  kind  of  game  which  has  been  forced  to  shelter 
from  the  high  water." 

It  was  a  cheerful  view  of  a  forlorn  hope.  Clark 
grasped  the  hand  extended  by  Beverley  and  they  looked 
encouragement  into  each  other's  eyes. 

Oncle  Jazon  volunteered  to  go  in  the  pirogue.  He 
was  ready  for  anything,  everything. 

"I  can't  shoot  wo'th  a  cent,"  he  whined,  as  they  took 
their  places  in  the  cranky  pirogue;  "but  I  might  jes' 
happen  to  kill  a  squir'l  or  a  elephant  or  somepin 
'nother." 

"Very  well,"  shouted  Clark  in  a  loud,  cheerful 
voice,  when  they  had  paddled  away  to  a  considerable 
distance,  "bring  the  meat  to  the  woods  on  the  hill  yon 
der,"  pointing  to  a  distant  island-like  ridge  far  be 
yond  the  creeping  flood.  "We'll  be  there  ready  to 
eat  it!" 

He  said  this  for  the  ears  of  his  men.  They  heard 
and  answered  with  a  straggling  but  determined  chorus 
of  approval.  They  crossed  the  rolling  current  of  the 
Wabash  by  a  tedious  process  of  ferrying,  and  at  last 
found  themselves  once  more  wading  in  back-water  up 
to  their  armpits,  breaking  ice  an  inch  thick  as  they 
went.  It  was  th«?  closing  struggle  to  reach  the  high 
wooded  lands.  Many  of  them  fell  exhausted ;  but  their 


314          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

stronger  comrades  lifted  them,  holding  their  heads 
above  water,  and  dragged  them  on. 

Clark,  always  leading,  always  inspiring,  was  first 
to  set  foot  on  dry  land.  He  shouted  triumphantly, 
waved  his  sword,  and  then  fell  to  helping  the  men  out 
of  the  freezing  flood.  This  accomplished,  he  ordered 
fires  built ;  but  there  was  not  a  soldier  of  them  all  whose 
hands  could  clasp  an  ax-handle,  so  weak  and  numbed 
with  cold  were  they.  He  was  not  to  be  baffled,  how 
ever.  If  fire  could  not  be  had,  exercise  must  serve  its 
purpose.  Hastily  pouring  some  powder  into  his  hand 
he  dampened  it  and  blacked  his  face.  "Victory,  men, 
victory !"  he  shouted,  taking  off  his  hat  and  beginning 
to  leap  and  dance.  "Come  on !  We'll  have  a  war  dance 
and  then  a  feast,  as  soon  as  the  meat  arrives  that  I 
have  sent  for.  Dance!  you  brave  lads,  dance!  Vic 
tory!  victory!" 

The  strong  men,  understanding  their  Colonel's  pur 
pose,  took  hold  of  the  delicate  ones;  and  the  leaping, 
the  capering,  the  tumult  of  voices  and  the  stamping 
of  slushy  moccasins  with  which  they  assaulted  that 
stately  forest  must  have  frightened  every  wild  thing 
thereabout  into  a  deadly  rigor.  Clark's  irrepressible 
energy  and  optimism  worked  a  veritable  charm  upon 
his  faithful  but  almost  dying  companions  in  arms. 
Their  trust  in  him  made  them  feel  sure  that  food  would 
soon  be  forthcoming.  The  thought  afforded  a  stim 
ulus  more  potent  than  wine;  it  drove  them  into  an 
ecstasy  of  frantic  motion  and  shouting  which  soon 
warmed  them  thoroughly. 

It  is  said  that  fortune  favors  the  brave.    The  larger 


A  March  Through  Cold  Water     315 

meaning  of  the  sentence  may  be  given  thus:  God 
guards  those  who  deserve  His  protection.  History 
tells  us  that  just  when  Clark  halted  his  command  al 
most  in  sight  of  Vincennes — just  when  hunger  was 
about  to  prevent  the  victory  so  close  to  his  grasp — a 
party  of  his  scouts  brought  in  the  haunch  of  a  buffalo 
captured  from  some  Indians.  The  scouts  were  Lieu 
tenant  Beverley  and  Oncle  Jazon.  And  with  the  meat 
they  brought  Indian  kettles  in  which  to  cook  it. 

With  consummate  forethought  Clark  arranged  to 
prevent  his  men  doing  themselves  injury  by  bolting 
their  food  or  eating  it  half-cooked.  Broth  was  first  made 
and  served  hot;  then  small  bits  of  well  broiled  steak 
were  doled  out,  until  by  degrees  the  fine  effect  of 
nourishment  set  in,  and  all  the  command  felt  the  fresh 
courage  of  healthy  reaction. 

"I  ain't  no  gin'ral,  nor  corp'ral,  nor  nothin',"  re 
marked  Oncle  Jazon  to  Colonel  Clark,  "but  'f  I's  you 
I'd  h'ist  up  every  dad  dinged  ole  flag  in  the  rig'ment, 
w'en  I  got  ready  to  show  myself  to  'em,  an'  I'd  make 
'em  think,  over  yander  at  the  fort,  'at  I  had  'bout 
ninety  thousan'  men.  Hit  'd  skeer  that  sandy  faced 
Gov'nor  over  there  till  he'd  think  his  back-bone  was  a 
comin'  out'n  'im  by  the  roots." 

Clark  laughed,  but  his  face  showed  that  the  old  man's 
suggestion  struck  him  forcibly  and  seriously. 

"We'll  see  about  that  presently,  Oncle  Jazon.  Wait 
till  we  reach  the  hill  yonder,  from  which  the  whole 
town  can  observe  our  manoeuvres,  then  we'll  try  it, 


Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Once  more  the  men  were  lined  up,  the  roll-call  gone 
through  with  satisfactorily,  and  the  question  put : 

"Are  we  ready  for  another  plunge  through  the  mud 
and  water?" 

The  answer  came  in  the  affirmative,  with  a  unanimity 
not  to  be  mistaken.  The  weakest  heart  of  them  all 
beat  to  the  time  of  the  charge  step.  Again  Clark  and 
Beverley  clasped  hands  and  took  the  lead. 

When  they  reached  the  next  high  ground  they 
gazed  in  silence  across  a  slushy  prairie  plot  to  where, 
on  a  slight  elevation,  old  Vincennes  and  Fort  Sackville 
lay  in  full  view. 

Beverley  stood  apart.  A  rush  of  sensations  affected 
him  so  that  he  shook  like  one  whose  strength  is  gone. 
His  vision  was  blurred.  Fort  and  town  swimming  in 
a  mist  were  silent  and  still.  Save  the  British  flag 
twinkling  above  Hamilton's  headquarters,  nothing  in 
dicated  that  the  place  was  not  deserted.  And  Alice? 
With  the  sweet  name's  echo  Beverley's  heart  bounded 
high,  then  sank  fluttering  at  the  recollection  that  she 
was  either  yonder  at  the  mercy  of  Hamilton,  or  already 
the  victim  of  an  unspeakable  cruelty.  Was  it  weakness 
for  him  to  lift  his  clasped  hands  heavenward  and  send 
up  a  voiceless  prayer  ? 

While  he  stood  thus  Oncle  Jazon  came  softly  to  his 
side  and  touched  his  arm.  Beverley  started. 

"The  nex'  thing'll  be  to  shoot  the  everlastin'  gizzards 
outen  'em,  won't  it?"  the  old  man  inquired.  "I'm  jes' 
a  eetchin'  to  git  a  grip  onto  that  Gov'n&r.  Ef  I  don't 
scelp  'em  I'm  a  squaw." 

Beverley  drew  a  deep  breath  and  came  oromptlj- 


A.  March  Through  Coia  Water  317 

back  from  his  dream.  It  was  now  Oncle  Jazon's  turn 
to  assume  a  reflective,  reminiscent  mood.  He  looked 
about  him  with  an  expression  of  vague  half  tenderness 
on  his  shriveled  features. 

"I's  jes'  a  thinkin'  how  time  do  run  past  a  feller," 
he  presently  remarked.  "Twenty-seven  years  ago  I 
camped  right  here  wi'  my  wife — ninth  one,  ef  I  'mem 
ber  correct — jes'  fresh  married  to  'r;  sort  o'  honey 
moon.  'Twus  warm  an'  sunshiny  an'  nice.  She  wus 
a  poorty  squaw,  mighty  poorty,  an'  I  wus  as  happy  as 
a  tomtit  on  a  sugar-trough.  We  b'iled  sap  yander  on 
them  nobs  under  the  maples.  It  wus  glor'us.  Had 
some  several  wives  'fore  an'  lots  of  'm  sence;  but  she 
wus  sweetes'  of  'm  all.  Strange  how  a  feller  'mem 
bers  sich  things  an'  feels  sort  o'  lonesome  like !" 

The  old  man's  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners  and  he 
hitched  up  his  buckskin  trousers  with  a  ludicrous  sug 
gestion  of  pathos  in  every  line  of  his  attitude.  Un 
consciously  he  sidled  closer  to  Beverley,  remotely  feel 
ing  that  he  was  giving  the  young  man  very  effective 
sympathy,  well  knowing  that  Alice  was  the  sweet  bur 
den  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  thus  Oncle  Jazon  honestly 
tried  to  fortify  his  friend  against  what  probably  lay  in 
store  for  him. 

But  Beverley  failed  to  catch  the  old  man's  crude 
comfort  thus  flung  at  him.  The  analogy  was  not  ap 
parent.  Oncle  Jazon  probably  felt  that  his  kindness 
had  been  ineffectual,  for  he  changed  his  tone  and 
added : 

"But  I  s'pose  a  young  feller  like  ye  can't  onder- 
Itan'  w'at  it  is  to  love  a  'oman  an'  'en  hev  'er  quit  ye 


318          Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

for  'nother  feller,  an'  him  a  buck  Injin.  Wall,  wall, 
wall,  that's  the  way  it  do  go !  Of  all  the  livin'  things 
upon  top  o'  this  yere  globe,  the  mos'  onsartin',  crinkety- 
crankety  an'  slippery  thing  is  a  young  'oman  'at  knows 
she's  poorty  an'  'at  every  other  man  in  the  known 
world  is  blind  stavin'  crazy  in  love  wi'  'er,  same  as  you 
are.  She'll  drop  ye  like  a  hot  tater  'fore  ye  know  it, 
an'  'en  look  at  ye  jes'  pine  blank  like  she  never  knowed 
ye  afore  in  her  life.  It's  so,  Lieutenant,  shore's  ye'r 
born.  I  know,  for  I've  tried  the  odd  number  of  'em, 
an'  they're  all  jes'  the  same." 

By  this  time  Beverley's  ears  were  deaf  to  Oncle  Ja- 
zon's  querulous,  whining  voice,  and  his  thoughts  once 
more  followed  his  wistful  gaze  across  the  watery  plain 
to  where  the  low  roofs  of  the  Creole  town  appeared 
dimly  wavering  in  the  twilight  of  eventide,  which  was 
fast  fading  into  night.  The  scene  seemed  unsubstan 
tial  ;  he  felt  a  strange  lethargy  possessing  his  soul ; 
he  could  not  realize  the  situation.  In  trying  to  imag 
ine  Alice,  she  eluded  him,  so  that  a  sort  of  cloudy 
void  fell  across  his  vision  with  the  effect  of  baffling  and 
benumbing  it.  He  made  vain  efforts  to  recall  her 
voice,  things  that  she  had  said  to  him,  her  face,  her 
smiles ;  all  he  could  do  was  to  evoke  an  elusive,  tanta- 
,  lizing,  ghostly  something  which  made  him  shiver  in 
wardly  with  a  haunting  fear  that  it  meant  the  worst, 
whatever  the  worst  might  be.  Where  was  she  ?  Could 
she  be  dead,  and  this  the  shadowy  message  of  her  fate  ? 

Darkness  fell,  and  a  thin  fog  began  to  drift  in  wan 
streaks  above  the  water.  Not  a  sound,  save  the  sup 
pressed  stir  of  the  camp,  broke  the  wide,  dreary 


319 

silence.  Oncle  Jazon  babbled  until  satisfied  that  Bever- 

ley  was  unappreciative,  or  at  least  unresponsive. 
"Got  to  hev  some  terbacker,"  he  remarked,  and 

shambled  away  in  search  of  it  among  his  friends. 
A  little  later  Clark  approached  hastily  and  said: 
"I  have  been  looking  for  you.    The  march  has  begun. 

Bowman  and  Charleville  are  moving;    come,  there's 

no  time  to  lose." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   DUEL   BY   MOONLIGHT 

When  Hamilton,  after  running  some  distance,  saw 
that  he  was  gaining  upon  Alice  and  would  soon  over 
take  her,  it  added  fresh  energy  to  his  limbs.  He  had 
quickly  realized  the  foolishness  of  what  he  had  done 
in  visiting  the  room  of  his  prisoner  at  so  late  an  hour 
in  the  night.  What  would  his  officers  and  men  think  ? 
To  let  Alice  escape  would  be  extremely  embarrassing, 
and  to  be  seen  chasing  her  would  give  good  ground  for 
ridicule  on  the  part  of  his  entire  command.  Therefore 
his  first  thought,  after  passing  through  the  postern  and 
realizing  fully  what  sort  of  predicament  threatened 
him,  was  to  recapture  her  and  return  her  to  the  prison 
room  in  the  block-house  without  attracting  attention. 
This  now  promised  to  be  an  easier  task  than  he  had  at 
first  feared;  for  in  the  moonlight,  which  on  account 
of  the  dispersing  clouds,  was  fast  growing  stronger,  he 
saw  her  seem  to  falter  and  weaken.  Ortainly  her 
flight  was  checked  and  took  an  eccentric  turn,  as  if 
some  obstruction  had  barred  her  way.  He  rushed  on, 
not  seeing  that,  as  Alice  swerved,  a  man  intervened. 
Indeed  he  was  within  a  few  strides  of  laying  his  hand 
on  her  when  he  saw  her  make  the  strange  movement. 
It  was  as  if,  springing  suddenly  aside,  she  had  become 
two  persons  instead  of  one.  But  instantly  the  figures 
coincided  again,  and  in  becoming  taller  faced  about  * 
confronted  him. 

820 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  321 

Hamilton  stopped  short  in  his  tracks.  The  dark 
figure  was  about  five  paces  from  him.  It  was  not  Alice, 
and  a  sword  flashed  dimly  but  unmistakably  in  a  ray 
of  the  moon.  The  motion  visible  was  that  of  an  expert 
swordsman  placing  himself  firmly  on  his  legs,  with  his 
weapon  at  guard. 

AHce  saw  the  man  in  her  path  just  in  time  to  avoid 
running  against  him.  Lightly  as  a  flying  bird,  when  it 
whisks  itself  in  a  short  semicircle  past  a  tree  or  a 
bough,  she  sprang  aside  and  swung  around  to  the  rear 
of  him,  where  she  could  continue  her  course  toward 
the  town.  But  in  passing  she  recognized  him.  It  was 
Father  Beret,  and  how  grim  he  looked !  The  discovery 
was  made  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  its  effect  was 
instantaneous,  not  only  checking  the  force  of  her 
flight,  but  stopping  her  and  turning  her  about  to  gaze 
before  she  had  gone  five  paces  farther. 

Hamilton's  nerve  held,  startled  as  he  was,  when  he 
realized  that  an  armed  man  stood  before  him.  Natur 
ally  he  fell  into  the  error  of  thinking  that  he  had  been 
running  after  this  fellow  all  the  way  from  the  little 
gate,  where,  he  supposed,  Alice  had  somehow  given 
him  the  slip.  It  was  a  mere  flash  of  brain-light,  so  to 
call  it,  struck  out  by  the  surprise  of  this  curious  dis 
covery.  He  felt  his  bellicose  temper  leap  up  furiously 
at  being  balked  in  a  way  so  unexpected  and  withal  so 
inexplicable.  Of  course  he  did  not  stand  there  reason 
ing  it  all  out.  The  rush  of  impressions  came,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  acted  with  promptness.  Changing 
the  rapier,  which  he  held  in  his  right  hand,  over  into  his 
feft,  he  drew  a  small  pistol  from  the  breast  of  his  coat 


322          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

and  fired.  The  report  was  sharp  and  loud;  but  it 
caused  no  uneasiness  or  inquiry  in  the  fort,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  Indians  invariably  emptied  their  guns 
when  coming  into  the  town. 

Hamilton's  aim,  although  hasty,  was  not  bad.  The 
bullet  from  his  weapon  cut  through  Father  Beret's 
clothes  between  his  left  arm  and  his  body,  slightly 
creasing  the  flesh  on  a  rib.  Beyond  him  it  struck 
heavily  and  audibly.  Alice  fell  limp  and  motionless 
to  the  soft  wet  ground,  where  cold  puddles  of  water 
were  splintered  over  with  ice.  She  lay  pitifully 
crumpled,  one  arm  outstretched  in  the  moonlight. 
Father  Beret  heard  the  bullet  hit  her,  and  turned  in 
time  to  see  her  stagger  backward  with  a  hand  con 
vulsively  pressed  over  her  heart.  Her  face,  slightly  up 
turned  as  she  reeled,  gave  the  moon  a  pallid  target  for 
its  strengthening  rays.  Sweet,  beautiful,  its  rigid 
features  flashed  for  a  second  and  then  half  turned  away 
from  the  light  and  went  down. 

Father  Beret  uttered  a  short,  thin  cry  and  moved  as 
if  to  go  to  the  fallen  girl,  but  just  then  he  saw  Hamil 
ton's  sword  pass  over  again  into  his  right  hand,  and 
knew  that  there  was  no  time  for  anything  but  death  or 
fight.  The  good  priest  did  not  shirk  what  might  have 
made  the  readiest  of  soldiers  nervous.  Hamilton  was 
known  to  be  a  great  swordsman  and  proud  of  the  dis 
tinction.  Father  Beret  had  seen  him  fence  with  Farns- 
worth  in  remarkable  form,  touching  him  at  will,  and  in 
ministering  to  the  men  in  the  fort  he  had  heard  them 
talk  of  the  Governor's  incomparable  skill. 

A  priest  is,  in  perhaps  all  cases  but  the  last  out  of 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  323 

a  thousand,  a  man  of  peace,  not  to  be  forced  into  a 
fight ;  but  the  exceptional  one  out  of  the  ten  hundred 
It  is  well  not  to  stir  up  if  you  are  looking  for  an  easy 
victim.  Hamilton  was  in  the  habit  of  considering 
every  antagonist  immediately  conquerable.  His  dom- 
ireer^g  spirit  could  not,  when  opposed,  reckon  with 
any  possibility  of  disaster.  As  he  sprang  toward 
Father  Beret  there  was  a  mutual  recognition  and,  we 
speak  guardedly,  something  that  sounded  exactly  like 
an  exchange  of  furious  execrations.  As  for  Father 
Beret's  words,  they  may  have  been  a  mere  priestly 
formula  of  objurgation. 

The  moon  was  accommodating.  With  a  beautiful 
white  splendor  it  entered  a  space  of  cloudless  sky, 
where  it  seemed  to  slip  along  the  dusky  blue  surface 
among  the  stars,  far  over  in  the  west. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  Hamilton  exclaimed  between  teet* 
that  almost  crushed  one  another.  "You  prowling  hypo 
crite  of  hell !" 

Father  Beret  said  something.  It  was  not  compli 
mentary,  and  it  sounded  su/phurous,  if  r*at  profane. 
Remember,  however,  that  a  priest  can  scarcely  hope 
to  be  better  than  Peter,  and  Peter  did  actually  make 
the  Simon  pure  remark  when  hard  pressed.  At  all 
events  Father  Beret  said  something  with  vigorous 
emphasis,  and  met  Hamilton  half  way. 

Both  men,  stimulated  to  the  finger-tips  by  a  draught 
of  imperious  passion,  fairly  plunged  to  the  inevitable 
conflict.  Ah,  if  Alice  could  have  seen  her  beautiful 
weapons  cross,  if  she  could  have  heard  the  fine,  far- 
reaching  clink,  clink,  clink,  while  sparks  leaped  forth 


324          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

dazzling  even  in  the  moonlight ;  if  she  could  have  noted 
the  admirable,  nay,  the  amazing,  play,  as  the  men, 
regaining  coolness  to  some  extent,  gathered  their  forces 
and  fell  cautiously  to  the  deadly  work,  it  would  have 
been  enough  to  change  the  cold  shimmer  of  her  face 
to  a  flash  of  warm  delight.  For  she  would  have  under 
stood  every  feint,  longe,  parry,  and  seen  at  a  glance 
how  Father  Beret  set  the  pace  and  led  the  race  at  the 
beginning.  She  would  have  understood;  for  Father 
Beret  had  taught  her  all  she  knew  about  the  art  of 
fencing. 

Hamilton  quickly  felt,  and  with  a  sense  of  its 
strangeness,  the  priest's  masterly  command  of  his 
weapon.  The  surprise  called  up  all  his  caution  and 
cleverness.  Before  he  could  adjust  himself  to  such 
an  unexpected  condition  he  came  near  being  spitted 
outright  by  a  pretty  pass  under  his  guard.  The  nar 
row  escape,  while  it  put  him  on  his  best  mettle, 
sent  a  wave  of  superstition  through  his  brain.  He 
recalled  what  Barlow  had  jocularly  said  about  the  do 
ings  of  the  devil-priest  or  priest-devil  at  Roussillon 
place  on  that  night  when  the  patrol  guard  attempted  to 
take  Gaspard  Roussillon.  Was  this,  indeed,  Father 
Beret,  that  gentle  old  man,  now  before  him,  or  was  it 
an  avenging  demon  from  the  shades  ? 

The  thought  flitted  electrically  across  his  mind,  while 
he  deftly  parried,  feinted,  longed,  giving  his  dark  an 
tagonist  all  he  could  do  to  meet  the  play.  Priest  or 
devil,  he  thought,  he  cared  not  which,  he  would  reach 
its  vitals  presently.  Yet  there  lingered  with  him  a 
haunting  half-fear,  or  tenuous  awe,  which  may  have 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  325 

aided,  rather  than  hindered  his  excellent  swordsman 
ship. 

Under  foot  it  was  slushy  with  mud,  water  and  ice, 
the  consistency  varying  from  a  somewhat  solid  crust 
to  puddles  that  half  inundated  Hamilton's  boots  and 
quite  overflowed  Father  Beret's  moccasins.  An 
execraole  field  for  the  little  matter  in  hand.  They 
gradually  shifted  position.  Now  it  was  the  Gover 
nor,  then  the  priest,  who  had  advantage  as  to  the  light. 
For  some  time  Father  Beret  seemed  quite  the  shiftier 
and  surer  fighter,  but  (was  it  his  age  telling  on  him?) 
he  lost  perceptibly  in  suppleness.  Still  Hamilton  failed 
to  touch  him.  There  was  a  baffling  something  in  the 
old  man's  escape  now  and  again  from  what  ought  to 
have  been  an  inevitable  stroke.  Was  it  luck?  It 
seemed  to  Hamilton  more  than  that — a  sort  of  un 
canny  evasion.  Or  was  it  supreme  mastery,  the  last 
and  subtlest  reach  of  the  fencer's  craft? 

Youth  forced  age  slowly  backward  in  the  struggle, 
which  at  times  took  on  spurts  so  furious  that  the 
slender  blades,  becoming  mere  glints  of  acicular  steel, 
split  the  moonlight  back  and  forth,  up  and  down,  so 
that  their  meetings,  following  one  another  in  a  well- 
nigh  continuous  stroke,  sent  a  jarring  noise  through 
the  air.  Father  Beret  lost  inch  by  inch,  until  the  fight 
ing  was  almost  over  the  body  of  Alice ;  and  now  for 
the  first  time  Hamilton  became  aware  of  that  motion 
less  something  with  the  white,  luminous  face  in  profile 
against  the  ground;  but  he  did  not  let  even  that  un 
settle  his  fencing  gaze,  which  followed  the  sunken 
and  dusky  eyes  of  his  adversary.  A  perspiration  sud- 


326         Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

denly  flooded  his  body,  however,  and  began  to  dnp 
across  his  face.  His  arm  was  tiring.  A  doubt  crept 
like  a  chill  into  his  heart.  Then  the  priest  appeared 
to  add  a  cubit  to  his  stature  and  waver  strangely  in 
the  soft  light.  Behind  him,  low  against  the  sky,  a 
wide  winged  owl  shot  noiselessly  across  just  above  the 
prairie. 

The  soul  of  a  true  priest  is  double:  it  is  the  soul 
of  a  saint  and  the  soul  of  a  worldly  man.  What  is 
most  beautiful  in  this  duality  is  the  supreme  courage 
with  which  the  saintly  spirit  attacks  the  worldly  and 
so  often  heroically  masters  it.  In  the  beginning  of 
the  fight  Father  Beret  let  a  passion  of  the  earthly  body 
take  him  by  storm.  It  was  well  for  Governor  Henry 
Hamilton  that  the  priest  was  so  wrought  upon  as  to  un 
settle  his  nerves,  otherwise  there  would  have  been  an 
evil  heart  impaled  midway  of  Father  Beret's  rapier. 
A  little  later  the  saintly  spirit  began  to  assert  itself, 
feebly  indeed,  but  surely.  Then  it  was  that  Father 
Beret  seemed  to  be  losing  agility  for  a  while  as  he 
backstepped  away  from  Hamilton's  increasing  energy 
of  assault.  In  his  heart  the  priest  was  saying:  "I 
will  not  murder  him.  I  must  not  do  that.  He  de 
serves  death,  but  vengeance  is  not  mine.  I  will  dis 
arm  him."  Step  by  step  he  retreated,  playing  erratic 
ally  to  make  an  opening  for  a  trick  he  meant  to  use. 

It  was  singularly  loose  play,  a  sort  of  waverings 
shifty,  incomprehensible  show  of  carelessness,  that 
caused  Hamilton  to  entertain  a  doubt,  which  was  really 
a  fear,  as  to  what  was  going  to  happen ;  for,  notwith 
standing  all  this  neglect  of  due  precaution  on  the 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  327 

priest's  part,  to  touch  him  seemed  impossible,  miracu 
lously  so,  and  every  plan  of  attack  dissolved  into  futil 
ity  in  the  most  maddening  way. 

"Priest,  devil  or  ghost!"  raged  Hamilton,  with  a 
froth  gathering  around  his  mouth;  "I'll  kill  you, 
or " 

He  made  a  longe,  when  his  adversary  left  an  open 
ing  which  appeared  absolutely  beyond  defence.  It  was 
a  quick,  dextrous,  vicious  thrust.  The  blade  leaped 
toward  Father  Beret's  heart  with  a  twinkle  like  light 
ning. 

At  that  moment,  although  warily  alert  and  hopeful 
that  his  opportunity  was  at  hand,  Father  Beret  came 
near  losing  his  life ;  for  as  he  side-stepped  and  easily 
parried  Hamilton's  thrust,  which  he  had  invited,  think 
ing  to  entangle  his  blade  and  disarm  him,  he  caught 
his  foot  in  Alice's  skirt  and  stumbled,  nearly  falling 
across  her.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  Hamilton  to 
run  him  through,  had  he  instantly  followed  up  the 
advantage.  But  the  moonlight  on  Alice's  face  struck 
his  eyes,  and  by  that  indirect  ray  of  vision  which  is 
often  strangely  effective,  he  recognized  her  lying 
there.  It  was  a  disconcerting  thing  for  him,  but  he 
rallied  instantly  and  sprang  aside,  taking  a  new  posi 
tion  just  in  time  to  face  Father  Beret  again.  A  chill 
crept  up  his  back.  The  horror  which  he  could  not 
shake  off  enraged  him  beyond  measure.  Gathering 
fresh  energy,  he  renewed  the  assault  with  desperate 
steadinesc,  the  highest  product  of  absolutely  molten 
tury. 

Father  Beret  felt  the  dangerous  access  of  power  in 


328          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

his  antagonist's  arm,  and  knew  that  a  crisis  had  ar 
rived.  He  could  not  be  careless  now.  Here  was  a 
swordsman  of  the  best  school  calling  upon  him  for  all 
the  skill  and  strength  and  cunning  that  he  could  com 
mand.  Again  the  saintly  element  was  near  being 
thrown  aside  by  the  worldly  in  the  old  man's  breast. 
Alice  lying  there  seemed  mutely  demanding  that  he 
avenge  her.  A  riotous  something  in  his  blood 
clamored  for  a  quick  and  certain  act  in  this  drama 
by  moonlight — a  tragic  close  by  a  stroke  of  terrible  yet 
perfectly  fitting  justice. 

There  was  but  the  space  of  a  breath  for  the  conflict 
in  the  priest's  heart,  yet  during  that  little  time  he  rea 
soned  the  case  and  quoted  scripture  to  himself. 

"D online,  percutimus  in  gladio?"  rang  through  his 
mind.  "Lord,  shall  we  smite  with  the  sword?" 

Hamilton  seemed  to  make  answer  to  this  with  a 
dazzling  display  of  skill.  The  rapiers  sang  a  strange 
song  above  the  sleeping  girl,  a  lullaby  with  coruscations 
of  death  in  every  keen  note. 

Father  Beret  was  thinking  of  Alice.  His  brain, 
playing  double,  calculated  with  lightning  swiftness  the 
chances  and  movements  of  that  whirlwind  rush  of 
fight,  while  at  the  same  time  it  swept  through  a  retro 
spect  of  all  the  years  since  Alice  came  into  his  life. 
How  he  had  watched  her  grow  and  bloom ;  how  he  had 
taught  her,  trained  her  mind  and  soul  and  body  to  high 
things,  loved  her  with  a  fatherly  passion  unbounded, 
guarded  her  from  the  coarse  and  lawless  influences  of 
her  surroundings.  Like  the  tolling  of  an  infinitely 
melancholy  bell,  all  this  went  through  his  breast  and 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  329 

brain,  and,  blending  with  a  furious  current  of  what 
ever  passions  were  deadly  dangerous  in  his  nature, 
swept  as  a  storm  bearing  its  awful  force  into  his  sword- 
arm. 

The  Englishman  was  a  lion,  the  priest  a  gladiator. 
The  .-tars  aloft  in  the  vague,  dark,  yet  splendid, 
amphitheater  were  the  audience.  It  was  a  question. 
Would  the  thumbs  go  down  or  up?  Life  and  death 
held  the  chances  even ;  but  it  was  at  the  will  of  Heaven, 
not  of  the  stars.  "Hoc  habet"  must  follow  the  stroke 
ordered  from  beyond  the  astral  clusters  and  the  dusky 
blue. 

Hamilton  pressed,  nay  rushed,  the  fight  with  a 
weight  and  at  a  pace  which  could  not  last.  But 
Father  Beret  withstood  him  so  firmly  that  he  made 
no  farther  headway ;  he  even  lost  some  ground  a  mo 
ment  later. 

"You  damned  Jesuit  hypocrite!"  he  snarled;  "you 
lowest  of  a  vile  brotherhood  of  liars !" 

Then  he  rushed  again,  making  a  magnificent  show 
of  strength,  quickness  and  accuracy.  The  sparks 
hissed  and  crackled  from  the  rasping  and  ringing 
blades. 

Father  Beret  was,  in  truth,  a  Jesuit,  and  as  such  a 
zealot;  but  he  was  not  a  liar  or  a  hypocrite.  Being 
human,  he  resented  an  insult.  The  saintly  spirit  in 
him  was  strong,  yet  not  strong  enough  to  breast  the 
indignation  which  now  dashed  against  it.  For  a  mo 
ment  it  went  down. 

''Liar  and  scoundrel  yourself !"  he  retorted,  hoarsely 


330          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

forcing  the  words  out  of  his  throat.  "Spawn  of  a 
beastly  breed !" 

Hamilton  saw  and  felt  a  change  pass  over  the 
spirit  of  the  old  priest's  movements.  Instantly  the 
sword  leaping  against  his  own  seemed  endowed  with 
subtle  cunning  and  malignant  treachery.  Before  this 
it  had  been  difficult  enough  to  meet  the  fine  play  and 
hold  fairly  even;  now  he  was  startled  and  confused; 
but  he  rose  to  the  emergency  with  admirable  will 
power  and  cleverness. 

"Murderer  of  a  poor  orphan  girl!"  Father  Beret 
added  with  a  hot  concentrated  accent;  "death  is  too 
good  for  you." 

Hamilton  felt  nearer  his  grave  than  ever  before  in 
all  his  wild  experience,  for  somehow  doom,  shadowy 
and  formless,  like  the  atmosphere  of  an  awful  dream, 
enmisted  those  words ;  but  he  was  no  weakling  to  quit 
at  the  height  of  desperate  conflict.  He  was  strong, 
expert,  and  game  to  the  middle  of  his  heart. 

"I'll  add  a  traitor  Jesuit  to  my  list  of  dead,"  he 
panted  forth,  rising  yet  again  to  the  extremest  tension 
of  his  power. 

As  he  did  this  Father  Beret  settled  himself  as  you 
have  seen  a  mighty  horse  do  in  the  home  stretch  of  a 
race.  Both  men  knew  that  the  moment  had  arrived  for 
the  final  act  in  their  impromptu  play.  It  was  short,  a 
duel  condensed  and  crowded  into  fifteen  seconds  of 
time,  and  it  was  rapid  beyond  the  power  of  words  to 
describe.  A  bystander,  had  there  been  one,  could  not 
have  seen  what  was  finally  done  or  how  it  was  done. 
Father  Beret's  sword  seemed  to  be  revolving — it  was 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  331 

a  halo  in  front  of  Hamilton  for  a  mere  point  of  time. 
The  old  priest  seemed  to  crouch  and  then  make  a 
quick  motion  as  if  about  to  leap  backward.  A  wrench 
and  a  snip,  as  of  something  violently  jerked  from  a 
fastening,  were  followed  by  a  semicircular  flight  of 
H?  nilton's  rapier  over  Father  Beret's  head  to  stick  in 
the  ground  ten  feet  behind  him.  The  duel  was  over, 
and  the  whole  terrible  struggle  had  occupied  less  than 
three  minutes. 

With  his  wrist  strained  and  his  fingers  almost 
broken,  Hamilton  stumbled  forward  and  would  have 
impaled  himself  had  not  Father  Beret  turned  the  point 
of  his  weapon  aside  as  he  lowered  it. 

"Surrender,  or  die!" 

That  was  a  strange  order  for  a  priest  to  make,  but 
there  could  be  no  mistaking  its  authority  or  the  power 
behind  it.  Hamilton  regained  his  footing  and  looked 
dazed,  wheezing  and  puffing  like  a  porpoise,  but  he 
clearly  understood  what  was  demanded  of  him. 

"If  you  call  out  I'll  run  you  through,"  Father  Beret 
added,  seeing  him  move  his  lips  as  if  to  shout  for  help. 

The  level  rapier  now  reinforced  the  words.  Hamil 
ton  let  the  breath  go  noiselessly  from  his  mouth  and 
waved  his  hand  in  token  of  enforced  submission, 
i  "Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  demanded 
after  a  short  pause.  "You  seem  to  have  me  at  your 
mercy.  What  are  your  terms  ?" 

Father  Beret  hesitated.  It  was  a  question  difficult  to 
answer. 

"Give  me  your  word  as  a  British  officer  that  you 


332         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

will  never  again  try  to  harm  any  person,  not  an  open, 
armed  enemy,  in  this  town." 

Hamilton's  gorge  rose  perversely.  He  erected  him 
self  with  lofty  reserve  and  folded  his  arms.  The  dig 
nity  of  a  Lieutenant  Governor  leaped  into  him  and 
took  control.  Father  Beret  correctly  interpreted  what 
he  saw. 

"My  people  have  borne  much,"  he  said,  "and  the 
killing  of  that  poor  child  there  will  be  awfully  avenged 
if  I  but  say  the  word.  Besides,  I  can  turn  every  Indian 
in  this  wilderness  against  you  in  a  single  day.  You  are 
indeed  at  my  mercy,  and  I  will  be  merciful  if  you  will 
satisfy  my  demand." 

He  was  trembling  with  emotion  while  he  spoke  and 
the  desire  to  kill  the  man  before  him  was  making  a 
frightful  struggle  with  his  priestly  conscience;  but 
conscience  had  the  upper  hand.  Hamilton  stood  gazing 
fixedly,  pale  as  a  ghost,  his  thoughts  becoming  more 
and  more  clear  and  logical.  He  was  in  a  bad  situation. 
Every  word  that  Father  Beret  had  spoken  was  true 
and  went  home  with  force.  There  was  no  time  for 
parley  or  subterfuge ;  the  sword  looked  as  if,  eager  to 
find  his  heart,  it  could  not  be  held  back  another  mo 
ment.  But  the  wan,  cold  face  of  the  girl  had  more 
power  than  the  rapier's  hungry  point.  It  made  an  ab 
ject  coward  of  him. 

"I  am  willing  to  give  you  my  word,"  he  presently 
said.  "And  let  me  tell  you,"  he  went  on  more  rapidly, 
"I  did  not  shoot  at  her.  She  was  behind  you." 

"Your  word  as  a  British  officer?" 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight          333 

Hamilton  again  stiffened  and  hesitated,  but  only  for 
the  briefest  space,  then  said: 

"Yes,  my  word  as  a  British  officer." 

Father  Beret  waved  his  hand  with  impatience. 

"Go,  then,  back  to  your  place  in  the  fort  and  dis 
turb  my  people  no  more.  The  soul  of  this  poor  little 
girl  will  haunt  you  forever.  Go!" 

Hamilton  stood  a  little  while  gazing  at  the  face  of 
Alice  with  the  horrible  wistfulness  of  remorse.  What 
would  he  not  have  given  to  rub  his  eyes  and  find  it  all 
a  dream? 

He  turned  away;  a  cloud  scudded  across  the  moon; 
here  and  yonder  in  the  dim  town  cocks  crowed  with  a 
lonesome,  desultory  effect. 

Father  Beret  plucked  up  the  rapier  that  he  had 
wrenched  from  Hamilton's  hand.  It  suggested  some 
thing. 

"Hold!"  he  called  out,  "give  me  the  scabbard  of 
this  sword." 

Hamilton,  who  was  striding  vigorously  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  fort,  turned  about  as  the  priest  hastened 
to  him. 

"Give  me  the  scabbard  of  this  rapier;  I  want  it. 
Take  it  off." 

The  command  was  not  gently  voiced.  A  hoarse, 
half -whisper  winged  every  word  with  an  imperious 
threat. 

Hamilton  obeyed.  His  hands  were  not  firm;  his 
fingers  fumbled  nervously ;  but  he  hurried,  and  Father 
Beret  soon  had  the  rapier  sheathed  and  secured  at 
his  belt  beside  its  mate. 


334        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

A  good  and  true  priest  is  a  burden-bearer.  His 
motto  is:  Alter  alterius  onera  portate;  bear  ye  one 
another's  burdens.  His  soul  is  enriched  with  the  cast- 
off  sorrows  of  those  whom  he  relieves.  Father  Beret 
scarcely  felt  the  weight  of  Alice's  body  when  he  lifted 
it  from  the  ground,  so  heavy  was  the  pressure  of  his 
grief.  All  that  her  death  meant,  not  only  to  him,  but 
to  every  person  who  knew  her,  came  into  his  heart  as 
the  place  of  refuge  consecrated  for  the  indwelling  of 
pain.  He  lifted  her  and  bore  her  as  far  toward  Rous- 
sillon  place  as  he  could;  but  his  strength  fell  short  just 
in  front  of  the  little  Bourcier  cottage,  and  half  dead 
he  staggered  across  the  veranda  to  the  door,  where 
he  sank  exhausted. 

After  a  breathing  spell  he  knocked.  The  household, 
fast  asleep,  did  not  hear;  but  he  persisted  until  the 
door  was  opened  to  him  and  his  burden. 

Captain  Farnsworth  unclosed  his  bloodshot  eyes,  at 
about  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  quite  confused  as  to 
his  place  and  surroundings.  He  looked  about  drowsily 
with  a  sheepish  half-knowledge  of  having  been  very 
drunk.  A  purring  in  his  head  and  a  dull  ache  re 
minded  him  of  an  abused  stomach.  He  yawned  and 
stretched  himself,  then  sat  up,  running  a  hand  through 
his  tousled  hair.  Father  Beret  was  on  his  knees  before 
the  cross,  still  as  a  statue,  his  clasped  hands  extended 
upward. 

Farnsworth's  face  lighted  with  recognition,  and  he 
smiled  rather  bitteily.  He  recalled  everything  and  felt 
ashamed,  humiliated,  self-debased.  He  had  outraged 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  335 

even  a  priest's  hospitality  with  his  brutish  appetite, 
and  he  hated  himself  for  it.  Disgust  nauseated  his 
soul  apace  with  the  physical  sinking  and  squirming  that 
grew  upon  him. 

Tm  a  shabby,  worthless  dog!"  he  muttered,  with 
petulant  accent ;  "why  don't  you  kick  me  out,  Father  ?" 

The  priest  turned  a  collapsed  and  bloodless  gray 
face  upon  him,  smiled  in  a  tired,  perfunctory  way, 
crossed  himself  absently  and  said : 

"You  have  rested  well,  my  son.  Hard  as  the  bed  is, 
you  have  done  it  a  compliment  in  the  way  of  sleeping. 
You  young  soldiers  understand  how  to  get  the  most 
out  of  things." 

"You  are  too  generous,  Father,  and  I  can't  appreci 
ate  it.  I  know  what  I  deserve,  and  you  know  it,  too. 
Tell  me  what  a  brute  and  fool  I  am;  it  will  do  me 
good.  Punch  me  a  solid  jolt  in  the  ribs,  like  the  one 
you  gave  me  not  long  ago." 

"Qui  sine  peccato  est,  primus  lapidem  mittat,"  said 
the  priest.  "Let  him  who  is  without  sin  cast  the  first 
stone." 

He  had  gone  to  the  hearth  and  was  taking  from  the 
embers  an  earthen  saucer,  or  shallow  bowl,  in  which 
some  fragrant  broth  simmered  and  steamed. 

"A  man  who  has  slept  as  long  as  you  have,  my  son, 
usually  has  a  somewhat  delicate  appetite.  Now,  here 
is  a  soup,  not  especially  satisfying  to  the  taste  of  a 
gourmet  like  yourself,  but  possessing  the  soothing 
quality  that  is  good  for  one  just  aroused  from  an  un 
usual  nap.  I  offer  it,  my  son,  propter  stomach-um 
tuum,  et  frequent es  tuas  infirmitates  (on  account  of 


336          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

thy  stomach,  and  thine  often  infirmities).  This  soup 
will  go  to  the  right  spot." 

While  speaking  he  brought  the  hot  bowl  to  Farns- 
worth  and  set  it  on  the  bedcover  before  him,  then 
fetched  a  big  horn  spoon. 

The  fragrance  of  pungent  roots  and  herbs,  blent 
with  a  savory  waft  of  buffalo  meat,  greeted  the  Cap 
tain's  sense,  and  the  anticipation  itself  cheered  his 
aching  throat.  It  made  him  feel  greedy  and  in  a 
hurry.  The  first  spoonful,  a  trifle  bitter,  was  not  so 
pleasant  at  the  beginning,  but  a  moment  after  he 
swallowed  it  a  hot  prickling  set  in  and  seemed  to  dart 
through  him  from  extremity  to  extremity. 

Slowly,  as  he  ate,  the  taste  grew  more  agreeable,  and 
all  the  effects  of  his  debauch  disappeared.  It  was  like 
magic;  his  blood  warmed  and  glowed,  as  if  touched 
with  mysterious  fire. 

"What  is  this  in  this  soup,  Father  Beret,  that  makes 
it  so  searching  and  refreshing?"  he  demanded,  when 
the  bowl  was  empty. 

Father  Beret  shook  his  head  and  smiled  drolly. 

"That  I  cannot  divulge,  my  son,  owing  to  a  promise 
I  had  to  make  to  the  aged  Indian  who  gave  me  the 
secret.  It  is  the  elixir  of  the  Miamis.  Only  their  con 
secrated  medicine  men  hold  the  recipe.  The  stimula 
tion  is  but  temporary." 

Just  then  someone  knocked  on  the  door.  Father 
Beret  opened  it  to  one  of  Hamilton's  aides. 

"Your  pardon,  Father,  but  hearing  Captain  Farns- 
Worth's  voice  I  made  bold  to  knock." 

44 What  is  it,  Bobby?"  Farnsworth  called  out. 


A  Duel  by  Moonlight  337 

"Nothing,  only  the  Governor  has  been  having  you 
looked  for  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  fort  and 
town.  You'd  better  report  at  once,  or  he'll  be  having 
us  drag  the  river  for  your  body." 

All  right,  Lieutenant,  go  back  and  keep  mum, 
that's  a  dear  boy,  and  I'll  shuffle  into  Colonel  Hamil 
ton's  august  presence  before  many  minutes." 

The  aide  laughed  and  went  his  way  whistling  a 
merry  tune. 

"Now  I  am  sure  to  get  what  I  deserve,  with  usury 
at  forty  per  cent  in  advance,"  said  Farnsworth  dryly, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  with  undissembled  dread  of 
Hamilton's  wrath.  But  the  anticipation  was  not  real 
ized.  The  Governor  received  Farnsworth  stiffly 
enough,  yet  in  a  way  that  suggested  a  suppressed  de 
sire  to  avoid  explanations  on  the  Captain's  part  and 
a  reprimand  on  his  own.  In  fact,  Hamilton  was  hop 
ing  that  something  would  turn  up  to  shield  him  from 
the  effect  of  his  terrible  midnight  adventure,  which 
seemed  the  darker  the  more  he  thought  of  it.  He 
had  a  slow,  numb  conscience,  lying  deep  where  it  was 
hard  to  reach,  and  when  a  qualm  somehow  entered  it 
he  endured  in  secret  what  most  men  would  have  cast 
off  or  confessed.  He  was  haunted,  if  not  with  re 
morse,  at  least  by  a  dread  of  something  most  disagree 
able  in  connection  with  what  he  had  done.  Alice's 
white  face  had  impressed  itself  indelibly  on  his  mem 
ory,  so  that  it  met  his  inner  vision  at  every  turn.  He 
was  afraid  to  converse  with  Farnsworth  lest  she  should 
come  up  for  discussion;  consequently  their  interview 
was  curt  and  formal. 


338         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

It  was  soon  discovered  that  Alice  had  escaped 
from  the  stockade,  and  some  show  of  search  was 
made  for  her  by  Hamilton's  order,  but  Farnsworth 
looked  to  it  that  the  order  was  not  carried  out.  He 
thought  he  saw  at  once  that  his  chief  knew  where 
slie  was.  The  mystery  perplexed  and  pained 
the  young  man,  and  caused  him  to  fear  all  sorts 
of  evil ;  but  there  was  a  chance  that  Alice  had  found 
a  safe  retreat  and  he  knew  that  nothing  but  ill 
could  befall  her  if  she  were  discovered  and  brought 
back  to  the  fort.  Therefore  his  search  for  her  became 
his  own  secret  and  for  his  own  heart's  ease.  And 
doubtless  he  would  have  found  her;  for  even  handi 
capped  and  distorted  love  like  his  is  lynx-eyed  and 
sure  on  the  track  of  its  object ;  but  a  great  event  inter 
vened  and  swept  away  his  opportunity. 

Hamilton's  uneasiness,  which  was  that  of  a  strong, 
misguided  nature  trying  to  justify  itself  amid  a  con 
fusion  of  unmanageable  doubts  and  misgivings,  now 
vented  itself  in  a  resumption  of  the  repairs  he  had 
been  making  at  certain  points  in  the  fort.  These  he 
completed  just  in  time  for  the  coming  of  Clark. 


CHAPTER  XIX- 

THE    ATTACK 

It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  Indians,  arriving 
singly  or  in  squads,  to  report  at  Hamilton's  head 
quarters,  were  in  the  habit  of  firing  their  guns  before 
entering  the  town  or  the  fort,  not  only  as  a  signal 
of  their  approach,  but  in  order  to  rid  their  weapons  of 
their  charges  preliminary  to  cleaning  them  before 
setting  out  upon  another  scalp-hunting  expedition.  A 
shot,  therefore,  or  even  a  volley,  heard  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  village,  was  not  a  noticeable  incident  in  the 
daily  and  nightly  experience  of  the  garrison.  Still, 
for  some  reason,  Governor  Hamilton  started  violently 
when,  just  after  nightfall,  five  or  six  rifles  cracked 
sharply  a  short  distance  from  the  stockade. 

He  and  Helm  with  two  other  officers  were  in  the 
midst  of  a  game  of  cards,  while  a  kettle,  swinging  on 
a  crane  in  the  ample  fire-place,  sang  a  shrill  promise 
of  hot  apple-jack  toddy. 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Farnsworth,  who,  although 
not  in  the  game,  was  amusing  himself  with  looking  on ; 
"you  jump  like  a  fine  lady !  I  almost  fancied  I  heard 
a  bullet  hit  you." 

"You  may  all  jump  while  you  can,"  remarked 
Helm.  "That's  Clark,  and  your  time's  short-  He'll 
have  this  fort  tumbling  on  your  heads  before  daylight 
of  to-morrow  morning  comes." 

As  he  spoke  he  arose  from  his  seat   at    the   card 

339 


34-O        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

table  and  went  to  look  after  the  toddy,  which,  as  an 
expert,  he  had  under  supervision. 

Hamilton  frowned.  The  mention  of  Clark  was  dis 
turbing.  Ever  since  the  strange  disappearance  of 
Lieutenant  Barlow  he  had  nursed  the  fear  that  possibly 
Clark's  scouts  had  captured  him  and  that  the  Ameri 
can  forces  might  be  much  nearer  than  Kaskaskia.  Be 
sides,  his  nerves  were  unruly,  as  they  had  been  ever 
since  the  encounter  with  Father  Beret ;  and  his  vision 
persisted  in  turning  back  upon  the  accusing  cold  face 
of  Alice,  lying  in  the  moonlight.  One  little  detail  of 
that  scene  almost  maddened  him  at  times;  it  was  a 
sheeny,  crinkled  wisp  of  warm  looking  hair  looped 
across  the  cheek  in  which  he  had  often  seen  a  saucy 
dimple  dance  when  Alice  spoke  or  smiled.  He  was 
bad  enough,  but  not  wholly  bad,  and  the  thought  of 
having  darkened  those  merry  eyes  and  stilled  those 
sweet  dimples  tore  through  him  with  a  cold,  rasping 
pang. 

"Just  as  soon  as  this  toddy  is  properly  mixed  and 
tempered,"  said  Helm,  with  a  magnetic  jocosity  beam 
ing  from  his  genial  face,  "I'm  going  to  propose  a  toast 
to  the  banner  of  Alice  Roussillon,  which  a  whole  garri 
son  of  British  braves  has  been  unable  to  take !" 

"If  you  do  I'll  blow  a  hole  through  you  as  big  as 
the  south  door  of  hell,"  said  Hamilton,  in  a  voice  fairly 
shaken  to  a  husky  quaver  with  rage.  "You  may  do  a 
great  many  insulting  things;  but  not  that." 

Helm  was  in  a  half  stooping  attitude  with  a  ladle 
in  one  hand,  a  cup  in  the  other.  He  had  met  Hamil 
ton's  glowering  look  with  a  peculiarly  innocent  smile, 


The  Attack  341 

as  if  to  say:  "What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  now? 
I  never  felt  in  a  better  humor  in  all  my  life.  Can't  you 
take  a  joke,  I  wonder?"  He  did  not  speak,  however, 
for  a  rattling  volley  of  musket  and  rifle  shots  hit  the 
top  of  the  clay-daubed  chimney,  sending  down  into  the 
toddy  a  shower  of  soot  and  dirt. 

In  a  wink  every  man  was  on  his  feet  and  staring. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Helm,  with  an  impressive  oath, 
"that  is  Clark's  soldiers,  and  they  will  take  your  fort; 
but  they  ought  not  to  have  spoiled  this  apple  toddy!" 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  said  Hamilton,  forcibly  resuming 
a  calm  countenance,  "it  is  only  a  squad  of  drunken  In 
dians  coming  in.  We'll  forego  excitement ;  there's  no 
battle  on  hand,  gentlemen." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,  Governor  Hamilton," 
Helm  responded,  "but  I  should  imagine  that  I  ought 
to  know  the  crack  of  a  Kentucky  rifle.  I've  heard  one 
occasionally  in  my  life.  Besides,  I  got  a  whiff  of  free 
dom  just  now." 

"Captain  Helm  is  right,"  observed  Farnsworth. 
"That  is  an  attack." 

Another  volley,  this  time  nearer  and  more  concen 
trated,  convinced  Hamilton  that  he  was,  indeed,  at  the 
opening  of  a  fight.  Even  while  he  was  giving  some 
hurried  orders  to  his  officers,  a  man  was  wounded  at 
one  of  the  port-holes.  Then  came  a  series  of  yells, 
answered  by  a  ripple  of  sympathetic  French  shouting 
that  ran  throughout  the  town.  The  patrol  guards 
came  straggling  in,  breathless  with  excitement.  They 
swore  to  having  seen  a  thousand  men  marching  across 
the  water-covered  meadows. 


342          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Hamilton  was  brave.  The  approach  of  danger 
stirred  him  like  a  trumpet-strain.  His  fighting  blood 
rose  to  full  tide,  and  he  gave  his  orders  with  the  steadi 
ness  and  commanding  force  of  a  born  soldier.  The 
officers  hastened  to  their  respective  positions.  On  all 
sides  sounds  indicative  of  rapid  preparations  for  the 
fight  mingled  into  a  confused  strain  of  military  energy. 
Men  marched  to  their  places;  cannon  were  wheeled 
into  position,  and  soon  enough  the  firing  began  in  good 
earnest. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  rumor  of  Clark's  approach 
had  gone  abroad  through  the  village ;  but  not  a  French 
lip  breathed  it  to  a  friend  of  the  British.  The  Creoles 
were  loyal  to  the  cause  of  freedom ;  moreover,  they  cor 
dially  hated  Hamilton,  and  their  hearts  beat  high  at 
the  prospect  of  a  change  in  masters  at  the  fort.  Every 
cabin  had  its  hidden  gun  and  supply  of  ammunition, 
despite  the  order  to  disarm  issued  by  Hamilton.  There 
was  a  hustling  to  bring  these  forth,  which  was  accom 
panied  with  a  guarded  yet  irrepressible  chattering,  de 
lightfully  French  and  infinitely  volatile. 

"Tiens!  je  vais  f rotter  mon  fusil.  J'ai  vu  un  singe!" 
said  Jaques  Bourcier  to  his  daughter,  the  pretty  Ad- 
rienne,  who  was  coming  out  of  the  room  in  which 
Alice  lay. 

"I  saw  a  monkey  just  now ;  I  must  rub  up  my  gun !" 
He  could  not  be  solemn ;  not  he.  The  thought  of  an 
opportunity  to  get  even  with  Hamilton  was  like  wine 
in  his  blood. 

If  you  had  seen  those  hardy  and  sinewy  French 
men  gliding  in  the  dusk  of  evening  from  cottage  to 


The  Attack  343 

cottage,  passing  the  word  that  the  Americans  had  ar 
rived,  saying  airy  things  and  pinching  one  another  as 
they  met  and  hurried  on,  you  would  have  thought 
something  very  amusing  and  wholly  jocund  was  in 
preparation  for  the  people  of  Vincennes. 

There  was  a  current  belief  in  the  town  that  Gaspard 
Roussillon  never  missed  a  good  thing  and  always  some 
how  got  the  lion's  share.  He  went  out  with  the  ebb 
to  return  on  the  flood.  Nobody  was  surprised,  there 
fore,  when  he  suddenly  appeared  in  the  midst  of  his 
friends,  armed  to  the  teeth  and  emotionally  warlike  to 
suit  the  occasion.  Of  course  he  took  charge  of  every- 
k)dy  and  everything.  You  could  have  heard  him 
whisper  a  bowshot  away. 

"Taisons!"  he  hissed,  whenever  he  met  an  acquaint 
ance.  "We  will  surprise  the  fort  and  scalp  the  whole 
garrison.  Aux  armesl  Ics  Americains  viennent  d'ar- 
river!" 

At  his  own  house  he  knocked  and  called  in  vain.  He 
shook  the  door  violently;  for  he  was  thinking  of  the 
stores  under  the  floor,  of  the  grimy  bottles,  of  the  fra 
grant  Bordeaux — ah,  his  throat,  how  it  throbbed !  But 
where  was  Madame  Roussillon?  Where  was  Alice? 
"Jean!  Jean!"  he  cried,  forgetting  all  precaution, 
"come  here,  you  scamp,  and  »et  me  in  this  minute !" 

A  profoundly  impressive  silence  gave  him  to  under 
stand  that  his  home  was  deserted. 

"Chiff !  frightened  and  gone  to  stay  with  Madame 
Godere,  I  suppose — and  I  so  thirsty !  Bah !  hum,  hum, 
opres  le  vin  la  bataille,  ziff!" 

He  kicked  in  the  door  and  groped  his  way  to  the 


344          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

liquors.  While  he  hastily  swigged  and  smacked  he 
heard  the  firing  begin  with  a  crackling,  desultory  vol 
ley.  He  laughed  jovially,  there  in  the  dark,  between 
draughts  and  deep  sighs  of  enjoyment. 
.  "Et  moi  aussi,"  he  murmured,  like  the  vast  murmur 
of  the  sea,  "I  want  to  be  in  that  dance !  Pardonnez, 
messieurs.  Moi,  je  veux  danser,  s'il  vous  plait." 

And  when  he  had  filled  himself  he  plunged  out  and 
rushed  away,  wrought  up  to  the  extreme  fighting  pitch 
of  temper.  Diable!  if  he  could  but  come  across  that 
Lieutenant  Barlow,  how  he  would  smash  him  and  man 
gle  him !  In  magnifying  his  prowess  with  the  lens  of 
imagination  he  swelled  and  puffed  as  he  lumbered 
along. 

The  firing  sounded  as  if  it  were  between  the  fort 
and  the  river;  but  presently  when  one  of  Hamilton's 
cannon  spoke,  M.  Roussillon  saw  the  yellow  spike  of 
flame  from  its  muzzle  leap  directly  toward  the  church, 
and  he  thought  it  best  to  make  a  wide  detour  to  avoid 
going  between  the  firing  lines.  Once  or  twice  he  heard 
the  whine  of  a  stray  bullet  high  overhead.  Before  he 
had  gone  very  far  he  met  a  man  hurrying  toward  the 
fort.  It  was  Captain  Francis  Maisonville,  one  of  Ham 
ilton's  chief  scouts,  who  had  been  out  on  a  reconnois- 
sance  and,  cut  off  from  his  party  by  some  of  Clark's 
forces,  was  trying  to  make  his  way  to  the  main  gate 
of  the  stockade. 

M.  Roussillon  knew  Maisonville  as  a  somewhat  des 
perate  character,  a  leader  of  Indian  forays  and  a  trader 
in  human  scalps.  Surely  the  fellow  was  legitimate 
prey. 


The  Attack  345 

"Ziff!  diable  de  gredin!"  he  snarled,  and  leaping 
upon  him  choked  him  to  the  ground.  "Je  vais  vous 
scalper  immediatement !" 

Clark's  plan  of  approach  showed  masterly  strategy. 
Lieutenant  Bailey,  with  fourteen  regulars,  made  a 
show  of  attack  on  the  east,  while  Major  Bowman  led 
a  company  through  the  town,  on  a  line  near  where 
Main  street  in  Vincennes  is  now  located,  to  a  point 
north  of  the  stockade.  Charleville,  a  brave  Creole, 
who  was  at  the  head  of  some  daring  fellows,  by  a 
brilliant  dash  got  position  under  cover  of  a  natural 
terrace  at  the  edge  of  the  prairie,  opposite  the  fort's 
southwestern  angle.  Lieutenant  Beverley,  in  whom 
the  commander  placed  highest  confidence,  was  sent  to 
look  for  a  supply  of  ammunition,  and  to  gather  up  all 
the  Frenchmen  in  the  town  who  wished  to  join  in  the 
attack.  Oncle  Jazon  and  ten  other  available  men  went 
with  him. 

They  all  made  a  great  noise  when  they  felt  that  the 
place  was  completely  invested.  Nor  can  we  deny,  much 
as  we  would  like  to,  the  strong  desire  for  vengeance 
which  raised  those  shouting  voices  and  nerved 
those  steady  hearts  to  do  or  die  in  an  undertaking 
which  certainly  had  a  desperate  look.  Patriotism  of 
the  purest  strain  those  men  had,  and  that  alone  would 
have  borne  them  up;  but  the  recollection  of  smoulder 
ing  cabin  homes  in  Kentucky,  of  women  and  children 
murdered  and  scalped,  of  men  brave  and  true  burned 
at  the  stake,  and  of  all  the  indescribable  outrages  of 
Indian  warfare  incited  and  rewarded  by  the  com 
mander  of  the  fort  yonder,  added  to  patriotism  the 


346         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

terrible  urge  of  that  dark  passion  which  clamors  for 
blood  to  quench  the  fire  of  wrath.  Not  a  few  of 
those  wet,  half-frozen,  emaciated  soldiers  of  freedom 
had  experienced  the  soul  rending  shock  of  returning 
from  a  day's  hunting  in  the  forest  to  find  home  in  ashes 
and  loved  ones  brutally  murdered  and  scalped,  or 
dragged  away  to  unspeakable  outrage  under  circum 
stances  too  harrowing  for  description,  the  bare  thought 
of  which  turns  our  blood  cold,  even  at  this  distance. 
Now  the  opportunity  had  arrived  for  a  stroke  of  re 
taliation.  The  thought  was  tremendously  stimulating. 

Beverley,  with  the  aid  of  Oncle  Jazon,  was  able  to 
lead  his  little  company  as  far  as  the  church  before  the 
enemy  saw  him.  Here  a  volley  from  the  nearest  angle 
of  the  stockade  had  to  be  answered,  and  pretty  soon 
a  cannon  began  to  play  upon  the  position. 

"We  kin  do  better  some'rs  else,"  was  Oncle  Jazon's 
laconic  remark  flung  back  over  his  shoulder,  as  he 
moved  briskly  away  from  the  spot  just  swept  by  a 
six-pounder.  "Come  this  yer  way,  Lieutenant.  I  hyer 
some  o'  the  fellers  a  talkin'  loud  jes'  beyant  Legrace's 
place.  They  ain't  no  sort  o'  sense  a  tryin'  to  hit  any 
thing  a  shootin'  in  the  dark  nohow." 

When  they  reached  the  thick  of  the  town  there  was 
a  strange  stir  in  the  dusky  streets.  Men  were  slipping 
from  house  to  house,  arming  themselves  and  joining 
their  neighbors.  Qark  had  sent  an  order  earlier 
in  the  evening  forbidding  any  street  demonstration  by 
the  inhabitants;  but  he  might  as  well  have  ordered  the 
wind  not  to  blow  or  the  river  to  stand  still.  Oncle 
Jazon  knew  every  man  whose  outlines  he  could  see  or 


The  Attack  347 

whose  voice  he  heard.  He  called  each  one  by  name: 
"Here,  Roger,  fall  in ! — Come  Louis,  Alphonse,  Vic 
tor,  Octave — venez  id,  here's  the  American  army, 
come  with  me!"  His  rapid  French  phrases  leaped 
forth  as  if  shot  from  a  pistol,  and  his  shrill  voice,  fa 
miliar  to  every  ear  in  Vincennes,  drew  the  Creole 
militiamen  to  him,  and  soon  Beverley's  company  had 
doubled  its  numbers,  while  at  the  same  time  its  en 
thusiasm  and  ability  to  make  a  noise  had  increased  in 
a  far  greater  proportion.  In  accordance  with  an  order 
from  Clark  they  now  took  position  near  the  northeast 
corner  of  the  stockade  and  began  firing,  although  in 
the  darkness  there  was  but  little  opportunity  for  marks 
manship. 

Oncle  Jazon  had  found  citizens  Legrace  and  Bos- 
seron,  and  through  them  Clark's  men  were  supplied 
ivith  ammunition,  of  which  they  stood  greatly  in  need, 
their  powder  having  got  wet  during  their  long,  watery 
march.  By  nine  o'clock  the  fort  was  completely  sur 
rounded,  and  from  every  direction  the  riflemen  and 
musketeers  were  pouring  in  volley  after  volley.  Bev- 
srley  with  his  men  took  the  cover  of  a  fence  and  some 
louses  sixty  yards  from  the  stockade.  Here  to  their 
surprise  they  found  themselves  below  the  line  of  Ham 
ilton's  cannon,  which,  being  planted  on  the  second 
floor  of  the  fort,  could  not  be  sufficiently  depressed  to 
Dear  upon  them.  A  well  directed  musket  fire,  however, 
Fell  from  the  loopholes  of  the  blockhouses,  the  bullets 
rattling  merrily  against  the  cover  behind  which  the 
attacking  forces  lay. 
Beverley  was  thinking  of  Alice  during  every  mo- 


348        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ment  of  all  this  stir  and  tumult.  He  feared  that  she 
might  still  be  a  prisoner  in  the  fort  exposed  to  the  very 
bullets  that  his  men  were  discharging  at  every  crack 
and  cranny  of  those  loosely  constructed  buildings. 
Should  he  ever  see  her  again?  Would  she  care  for 
him?  What  would  be  the  end  of  all  this  terrible  sus 
pense?  Those  remote  forebodings  of  evils,  formless, 
shadowy,  ineffable,  which  have  harried  the  lover's 
heart  since  time  began,  crowded  all  pleasant  anticipa 
tions  out  of  his  mind. 

Clark,  in  passing  hurriedly  from  company  to  com 
pany  around  the  line,  stopped  for  a  little  while  when 
he  found  Beverley. 

"Have  you  plenty  of  ammunition?"  was  his  first  in 
quiry. 

"A  mighty  sight  more'n  we  kin  see  to  shoot  with," 
spoke  up  Oncle  Jazon.  "It's  a  right  smart  o'  dad  burn 
foolishness  to  be  wastin'  it  on  nothin';  seems  like  to 
me  'at  we'd  better  set  the  dasted  fort  afire  an'  smoke 
the  skunks  out!" 

"Speak  when  you  are  spoken  to,  my  man,"  said  the 
Colonel  a  trifle  hotly,  and  trying  by  a  sharp  scrutiny 
to  make  him  out  in  the  gloom  where  he  crouched. 

"Ventrebleu!  I'm  not  askin'  you,  Colonel  Clark, 
nor  no  other  man,  when  I  shill  speak.  I  talks  when 
ever  I  gits  ready,  an'  I  shoots  jes'  the  same  way.  So 
ye'd  better  go  on  'bout  yer  business  like  a  white  man! 
Close  up  yer  own  whopper  jawed  mouth,  ef  ye  want 
anything  shet  up !" 

"Oho !  is  that  you,  Jazon  ?  You're  so  little  I  didn't 
know  you!  Certainly,  talk  your  whole  damned  under 


The  Attack  349 

aw  off,  for  all  I  care,"  Clark  replied,  assuming  a  jocose 
one.  Then  turning  again  to  Beverley:  "Keep  up 
he  firing  and  the  noise;  the  fort  will  be  ours  in  the 
norning." 

"What's  the  use  of  waiting  till  morning?"  Bever- 
ey  demanded  with  impatience.  "We  can  tear  that 
itockade  to  pieces  with  our  hands  in  half  an  hour." 

"I  don't  think  so,  Lieutenant.  It  is  better  to  play 
'or  the  sure  thing.  Keep  up  the  racket,  and  be  ready 
or  'em  if  they  rush  out.  We  must  not  fail  to  capture 
he  hair-buyer  General." 

He  passed  on,  with  something  cheerful  to  say  when- 
:ver  he  found  a  squad  of  his  devoted  men.  He  knew 
low  to  humor  and  manage  those  independent  and  un- 
lisciplined  yet  heroically  brave  fellows.  What  to  see 
ind  hear,  what  to  turn  aside  as  a  joke,  what  to  insist 
ipon  with  inflexible  mastery,  he  knew  by  the  fine  in- 
.tantaneous  sense  of  genius.  There  were  many  men 
»f  Oncle  Jazon's  cast,  true  as  steel,  but  refractory  as 
lint,  who  could  not  be  dominated  by  any  person,  no 
natter  of  what  stamp  or  office.  To  them  an  order  was 
,n  insult ;  but  a  suggestion  pleased  and  captured  them, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  theirs  was  the  conquering 
pirit  of  America — the  spirit  which  has  survived  every 
urn  of  progress  and  built  up  the  great  body  of  our 
n  dependence. 

Beverley  submitted  to  Clark's  plan  with  what  pa- 
ience  he  could,  and  all  night  long  fired  shot  for  shot 
vith  the  best  riflemen  in  his  squad.  It  was  a  fatiguing 
>erformance,  with  apparently  little  result  beyond  forc- 
ng  the  garrison  now  and  again  to  close  the  embrasures, 


330          Alice  ot  Old  Vmcennes 

thus  periodically  silencing  the  cannon.  Toward  the 
close  of  the  night  a  relaxation  showed  itself  in  the 
shouting  and  firing  all  round  the  line.  Beverley's 
men,  especially  the  Creoles,  held  out  bravely  in  the 
matter  of  noise ;  but  even  they  flagged  at  length,  their 
volatility  simmering  down  to  desultory  bubbling  and 
half  sleepy  chattering  and  chaffing. 

Beverley  leaned  upon  a  rude  fence,  and  for  a  time 
neglected  to  reload  his  hot  rifle.  Of  course  he  was 
thinking  of  Alice, — he  really  could  not  think  in  any 
other  direction;  but  it  gave  him  a  shock  and  a  start 
when  he  presently  heard  her  name  mentioned  by  a 
little  Frenchman  near  him  on  the  left. 

"There'll  never  be  another  such  a  girl  in  Post  Vin- 
cennes  as  Alice  Roussillon,"  the  fellow  said  in  the  soft 
Creole  patois,  "and  to  think  of  her  being  shot  like  a 
dog!" 

"And  by  a  man  who  calls  himself  a  Governor,  too !" 
said  another.  "Ah,  as  for  myself,  I'm  in  favor  of 
burning  him  alive  when  we  capture  him.  That's  me !" 

"El  men  aussi,"  chimed  in  a  third  voice.  "That  poor 
girl  must  be  avenged.  The  man  who  shot  her  must 
die.  Holy  Virgin,  but  if  Gaspard  Roussillon  were 
only  here !" 

"But  he  is  here ;  I  saw  him  just  after  dark.  He  was 
in  great  fighting  temper,  that  terrible  man.  Ouf!  but 
I  should  not  like  to  be  Colonel  Hamilton  and  fall  in 
the  way  of  that  Gaspard  Roussillon !" 

"Morbleu!  I  should  say  not.  You  may  leave  me 
out  of  a  chance  like  that!  I  shouldn't  mind  seeing 
Gaspard  handle  the  Governor,  though.  Ah,  that  would 


The  Attack  351 

be  too  good !  He'd  pay  him  up  for  shooting  Mademoi 
selle  Alice." 

Beverley  could  scarcely  hold  himself  erect  by  the 
fence;  the  smoky,  foggy  landscape  swam  round  him 
heavy  and  strange.  He  uttered  a  groan,  which  brought 
Oncle  Jazon  to  his  side  in  a  hurry. 

"Qu'  avez-vous?  What's  the  matter?"  the  old  man 
demanded  with  quick  sympathy.  "Hev  they  hit  ye? 
Lieutenant,  air  ye  hurt  much  ?" 

Beverley  did  not  hear  the  old  man's  words,  did  not 
feel  his  kindly  touch. 

"Alice!   Alice!"   he   murmured,   "dead,   dead!" 

"Ya-as,"  drawled  Oncle  Jazon,  "I  hearn  about  it 
soon  as  I  got  inter  town.  It's  a  sorry  thing,  a  mighty 
sorry  thing.  But  mebby  I  won't  do  a  little  somepin' 
to  that " 

Beverley  straightened  himself  and  lifted  his  gun, 
forgetting  that  he  had  not  reloaded  it  since  firing  last. 
He  leveled  it  at  the  fort  and  touched  the  trigger.  Sim 
ultaneously  with  his  movement  an  embrasure  opened 
md  a  cannon  flashed,  its  roar  flanked  on  either  side 
by  a  crackling  of  British  muskets.  Some  bullets  struck 
:he  fence  and  flung  splinters  into  Oncle  Jazon's  face. 
A.  cannon  ball  knocked  a  ridge  pole  from  the  roof  of  a 
tiouse  hard  by,  and  sent  it  whirling  through  the  air. 

"Ventrebleu! — et  apres?  What  the  devil  next? 
Better  knock  a  feller's  eyes  out!"  the  old  man  cried. 
'I  ain't  a  doin'  nothin'  to  ye  I" 

He  capered  around  rubbing  his  leathery  face  after 
:he  manner  of  a  scalded  monkey.  Beverley  was  struck 
in  the  breast  by  a  flattened  and  spent  ball  that  glanced 


352          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

from  a  fence-picket.  The  shock  caused  him  to  stagger 
and  drop  his  gun;  but  he  quickly  picked  it  up  and 
turned  to  his  companion. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Oncle  Jazon?"  he  inquired.  "Are 
you  hurt  ?' 

"Not  a  bit — jes'  skeert  mos'  into  a  duck  fit.  Thought 
a  cannon  ball  had  knocked  my  whole  dang  face  down 
my  throat !  Nothin'  but  a  handful  o'  splinters  in  my 
poorty  count'nance,  makin'  my  head  feel  like  a  porc'- 
pine.  But  I  sort  o'  thought  I  heard  somepin'  give  you 
adiff." 

"Something  did  hit  me,"  said  Beverley,  laying  a 
hand  on  his  breast,  "but  I  don't  think  it  was  a  bullet. 
They  seem  to  be  getting  our  range  at  last.  Tell  the 
men  to  keep  well  under  cover.  They  must  not  expose 
themselves  until  we  are  ready  to  charge." 

The  shock  had  brought  him  back  to  his  duty  as  a 
leader  of  his  little  company,  and  with  the  funeral  bell 
of  all  his  life's  happiness  tolling  in  his  agonized  heart 
he  turned  afresh  to  directing  the  fire  upon  the  block 
house. 

About  this  time  a  runner  came  from  Clark  with  an 
order  to  cease  firing  and  let  a  returning  party  of  Brit 
ish  scouts  under  Captain  Lamothe  re-enter  the  fort 
unharmed.  A  strange  order  it  seemed  to  both  officers 
and  men ;  but  it  was  implicitly  obeyed.  Clark's  genius 
here  made  another  fine  strategic  flash.  He  knew  that 
unless  he  let  the  scouts  go  back  into  the  stockade  they 
would  escape  by  running  away,  and  might  possibly  or 
ganize  an  army  of  Indians  with  which  to  succor  Ham 
ilton.  But  if  they  were  permitted  to  go  inside  they 


The  Attack  353 

ould  be  captured  with  the  rest  of  the  garrison ;  hence 
lis  order. 

A  few  minutes  oassed  in  dead  silence ;  then  Captain 
^amothe  and  his  ^arty  marched  close  by  where  Bev- 
:rley's  squad  was  lying  concealed.  It  was  a  difficult 
ask  to  restrain  the  Creoles,  for  some  of  them  hated 
^amothe.  Oncle  Jazon  squirmed  like  a  snake  while 
hey  filed  past  all  unaware  that  an  enemy  lurked  so 
tear.  When  they  reached  the  fort,  ladders  were  put 
lown  for  them  and  they  began  to  clamber  over  the 
vail,  crowding  and  pushing  one  another  in  wild  haste. 
Dncle  Jazon  could  hold  in  no  longer. 

"Ya!  ya!  ya!"  he  yelled.  "Look  out!  the  ladder  is 
ifallin'  wi'ye!" 

Then  all  the  lurking  crowd  shouted  as  one  man,  and, 
ure  enough,  down  came  a  ladder — men  and  all  in  a 
rashing  heap. 

"Silence!  silence!"  Beverley  commanded;  but  he 
ould  not  check  the  wild  jeering  and  laughing,  while 
he  bruised  and  frightened  scouts  hastily  erected  their 
adder  again,  fairly  tumbling  over  one  another  in  their 
taste  to  ascend,  and  so  cleared  the  wall,  falling  into  the 
tockade  to  join  the  garrison. 

"Ventrebleu!"  shrieked  Oncle  Jazon.  "They've 
jone  to  bed ;  but  we'll  wake  'em  up  at  the  crack  o*  day 
in'  give  'em  a  breakfas'  o'  hot  lead!" 

Now  the  fighting  was  resumed  with  redoubled  spirit 
ind  noise,  and  when  morning  came,  affording  suffi- 
ient  light  to  bring  out  the  "bead  sights"  on  the  Ken- 
ucky  rifles,  the  matchless  marksmen  in  Clark's  band 
breed  the  British  to  close  the  embrasures  and  entirely 


354         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

cease  trying  to  use  their  cannon;  but  the  fight  with 
small  arms  went  merrily  on  until  the  middle  of  the 
forenoon. 

Meantime  Gaspard  Roussillon  had  tied  Francis 
Maisonville's  hands  fast  and  hard  with  the  strap  of 
his  bullet-pouch. 

"Now,  I'll  scalp  you,"  he  said  in  a  rumbling  tone, 
terrible  to  hear.  And  with  his  words  out  came  his 
hunting  knife  from  its  sheath. 

"O  have  mercy,  my  dear  Monsieur  Roussillon!" 
cried  the  panting  captive ;  "have  mercy !" 

"Mercy !  yes,  like  your  Colonel's,  that's  what  you'll 
get.  You  stand  by  that  forban,  that  scelerat,  that 
bandit,  and  help  him.  Oh,  yes,  you'll  get  mercy !  Yes, 
the  same  mercy  that  he  showed  to  my  poor  little  Alice ! 
Your  scalp,  Monsieur,  if  you  please !  A  small  matter ; 
it  won't  hurt  much !" 

"But,  for  the  sake  of  old  friendship,  Gaspard,  for 
the  sake " 

"Ziff!  poor  little  Alice!" 

"But  I  swear  to  you  that  I " 

"Tout  de  meme,  Monsieur,  je  vais  vous  scalper 
maintenant." 

In  fact  he  had  taken  off  a  part  of  Maisonville's  scalp, 
when  a  party  of  soldiers,  among  whom  was  Maison 
ville's  brother,  a  brave  fellow  and  loyal  to  the  Ameri 
can  cause,  were  attracted  by  his  cries  and  came  to  his 
rescue. 

M.  Roussillon  struggled  savagely,  insisting  upon 
completing  his  cruel  performance;  but  he  was  at  last 
overpowered,  partly  by  brute  force  and  partly  by  thfc 


The  Attack  355 

pleading  of  Maisonville's  brother,  and  made  to  de 
sist.  The  big  man  wept  with  rage  when  he  saw  the 
bleeding  prisoner  protected  "Eh  bien!  I'll  keep  what 
I've  got,"  he  roared,  "and  I'll  take  the  rest  of  it  next 
time." 

He  shook  the  tuft  of  hair  at  Maisonville  and  glared 
like  a  mad  bull. 

Two  or  three  other  members  of  Lamothe's  band 
were  captured  about  the  same  time  by  some  of  the 
French  militiamen;  and  Clark,  when  on  his  round 
cheering  and  directing  his  forces,  discovered  that  these 
prisoners  were  being  used  as  shields.  Some  young 
Creoles,  gay  with  drink  and  the  stimulating  effect  of 
fight,  had  bound  the  poor  fellows  and  were  firing  from 
behind  them !  Of  course  the  commander  promptly 
put  an  end  to  this  cruelty ;  but  they  considered  it  ex 
quisite  fun  while  it  lasted.  It  was  in  broad  daylight, 
and  they  knew  that  the  English  in  the  fort  could  see 
what  they  were  doing. 

"It's  shameful  to  treat  prisoners  in  this  way,"  said 
Clark.  "I  will  not  permit  it.  Shoot  the  next  man  that 
offers  to  do  such  a  thing!" 

One  of  the  Creole  youths,  a  handsome,  swarthy 
Adonis  in  buckskin,  tossed  his  shapely  head  with  a 
debonair  smile  and  said : 

"To  be  sure,  mon  Colonel/  but  what  have  they  been 
doing  to  us?  We  have  amused  them  all  winter;  it's 
but  fair  that  they  should  give  us  a  little  fun  now." 

Clark  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders  and  passed  on. 
He  understood  perfectly  what  the  people  of  Vincennes 
had  suffered  under  Hamilton's  brutal  administration. 


356          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

At  nine  o'clock  an  order  was  passed  to  cease  firing, 
and  a  flag  of  truce  was  seen  going  from  Clark's  head 
quarters  to  the  fort.  It  was  a  peremptory  demand  for 
unconditional  surrender.  Hamilton  refused,  and 
fighting  was  fiercely  resumed  from  behind  rude  breast 
works  meantime  erected.  Every  loop-hole  and  open 
ing  of  whatever  sort  was  the  focus  into  which  the 
unerring  backwoods  rifles  sent  their  deadly  bullets. 
Men  began  to  fall  in  the  fort,  and  every  moment  Ham 
ilton  expected  an  assault  in  force  on  all  sides  of  the 
stockade.  This,  if  successful,  would  mean  inevitabk 
massacre.  Clark  had  warned  him  of  the  terrible  con 
sequences  of  holding  out  until  the  worst  should  come. 
"For,"  said  he  in  his  note  to  the  Governor,  "if  I  am 
obliged  to  storm,  you  may  depend  upon  such  treat 
ment  as  is  justly  due  to  a  murderer." 

Historians  have  wondered  why  Hamilton  became  so 
excited  and  acted  so  strangely  after  receiving  the 
note.  The  phrase,  "justly  due  to  a  murderer,"  is  the 
key  to  the  mystery.  When  he  read  it  his  heart  sank 
and  a  terrible  fear  seized  him.  "Justly  due  to  a  mur 
derer!"  ah,  that  calm,  white,  beautiful  girlish  face, 
dead  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  wisp  of  shining  hair 
across  it!  "Such  treatment  as  is  justly  due  to  a  mur 
derer  !"  Cold  drops  of  sweat  broke  out  on  his  fore 
head  and  a  shiver  went  through  his  body. 

During  the  truce  Clark's  weary  yet  still  enthusi 
astic  besiegers  enjoyed  a  good  breakfast  prepared  for 
them  by  the  loyal  dames  of  Vincennes.  Little  Ad- 
rienne  Bourcier  was  one  of  the  handmaidens  of  the 
occasion.  She  brought  to  Beverley's  squad  a  basket, 


The  Attack  357 

almost  as  large  as  herself,  heaped  high  with  roasted 
duck  and  warm  wheaten  bread,  while  another  girl  bore 
two  huge  jugs  of  coffee,  fragrant  and  steaming  liot. 
The  men  cheered  them  lustily  and  complimented  them 
without  reserve,  so  that  before  their  service  was  over 
their  faces  were  glowing  with  delight. 

And  yet  Adrienne's  heart  was  uneasy,  and  full  of 
longing  to  hear  something  of  Rene  de  Ronville.  Surely 
some  one  of  her  friends  must  know  something  about 
him.  Ah,  there  was  Oncle  Jazon !  Doubtless  he  could 
tell  her  all  that  she  wanted  to  know.  She  lingered, 
after  the  food  was  distributed,  and  shyly  inquired. 

"Hain't  seed  the  scamp,"  said  Oncle  Jazon,  only  he 
used  the  patois  most  familiar  to  the  girl's  ear.  "Killed 
an'  scelped  long  ago,  I  reckon." 

His  mouth  was  so  full  that  he  spoke  mumblingly 
and  with  utmost  difficulty.  Nor  did  he  glance  at  Ad- 
rienne,  whose  face  took  on  as  great  pallor  as  her  brown 
complexion  could  show. 

Beverley  ate  but  little  of  the  food.  He  sat  apart 
on  a  piece  of  timber  that  projected  from  the  rough 
breastwork  and  gave  himself  over  to  infinite  misery  of 
spirit,  which  was  trebled  when  he  took  Alice's  locket 
from  his  bosom,  only  to  discover  that  the  bullet  which 
struck  him  had  almost  entirely  destroyed  the  face  of 
the  miniature. 

He  gripped  the  dinted  and  twisted  case  and  gazed 
at  it  with  the  stare  of  a  blind  man.  His  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat  and  his  breath  had  the  rustling  sound 
we  hear  when  a  strong  man  dies  of  a  sudden  wound. 
Somehow  the  defacement  of  the  portrait  was  taken  bjr 


358          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

his  soul  as  the  final  touch  of  fate,  signifying  that  Alice 
was  forever  and  completely  obliterated  from  his  life. 
He  felt  a  blur  pass  over  his  mind.  He  tried  in  vain 
to  recall  the  face  and  form  so  dear  to  him ;  he  tried  to 
imagine  her  voice;  but  the  whole  universe  was  a  vasi 
hollow  silence.  For  a  long  while  he  was  cold,  staring; 
rigid;  then  the  inevitable  collapse  came,  and  he  wept 
as  only  a  strong  man  can  who  is  hurt  to  death,  yet.  can* 
not  die. 

Adrienne  approached  him,  thinking  to  speak  to  him 
about  Rene;  but  he  did  not  notice  her,  and  she  went 
her  way,  leaving  beside  him  a  liberal  supply  of  food. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ALICE'S  FLAG 

Governor  Hamilton  received  the  note  sent  him  by 
Colonel  Clark  and  replied  to  it  with  curt  dignity ;  but 
his  heart  was  quaking.  As  a  soldier  he  was  true  to 
the  military  tradition,  and  nothing  could  have  induced 
him  to  surrender  his  command  with  dishonor. 

"Lieutenant-Governor  Hamilton,"  he  wrote  to 
Clark,  "begs  leave  to  acquaint  Colonel  Clark  that  he 
and  his  garrison  are  not  disposed  to  be  awed  into  any 
action  unworthy  of  British  subjects." 

"Very  brave  words,"  said  Helm,  when  Hamilton 
read  the  note  to  him,  "but  you'll  sing  a  milder  tune  be 
fore  many  minutes,  or  you  and  your  whole  garrison 
will  perish  in  a  bloody  heap.  Listen  to  those  wild  yells ! 
Clark  has  enough  men  to  eat  you  all  up  for  breakfast. 
You'd  better  be  reasonable  and  prudent.  It's  not 
bravery  to  court  massacre." 

Hamilton  turned  away  without  a  word  and  sent  the 
message ;  but  Helm  saw  that  he  was  excited,  and  could 
be  still  further  wrought  up. 

"You  are  playing  into  the  hands  of  your  bitterest 
enemies,  the  frog-eaters,"  he  went  on.  "These  Creoles, 
over  whom  you've  held  a  hot  poker  all  winter,  are 
crazy  to  be  turned  loose  upon  you ;  and  you  know  that 
they've  got  good  cause  to  feel  like  giving  you  the 
extreme  penalty.  They'll  give  it  to  you  without  a 
flinch  if  they  get  the  chance.  You've  done  enough.'* 

359 


360         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Hamilton  whirled  about  and  glared  ferociously. 

"Helm,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  he  demanded  in  a  voice 
as  hollow  as  it  was  full  of  desperate  passion. 

The  genial  Captain  laughed,  as  if  he  had  heard  a 
good  joke. 

"You  won't  catch  any  fish  if  you  swear,  and  you  look 
blasphemous,"  he  said  with  the  lightness  of  humor 
characteristic  of  him  at  all  times.  "You'd  better  say 
a  prayer  or  two.  Just  reflect  a  moment  upon  the  awful 
sins  you  have  committed  and " 

A  crash  of  coalescing  volleys  from  every  direction 
broke  off  his  levity.  Clark  was  sending  his  response 
to  Hamilton's  lofty  note.  The  guns  of  freedom  rang 
out  a  prophecy  of  triumph,  and  the  hissing  bullets 
clucked  sharply  as  they  entered  the  solid  logs  of  the 
walls  or  whisked  through  an  aperture  and  bowled  over 
a  man.  The  British  musketeers  returned  the  fire  as 
best  they  could,  with  a  courage  and  a  stubborn  cool 
ness  which  Helm  openly  admired,  although  he  could 
not  hide  his  satisfaction  whenever  one  of  them  was 
disabled. 

"Lamothe  and  his  men  are  refusing  to  obey  orders," 
said  Farnsworth  a  little  later,  hastily  approaching 
Hamilton,  his  face  flushed  and  a  gleam  of  hot  anger 
in  his  eyes.  "They're  in  a  nasty  mood ;  I  can  do  noth 
ing  with  them ;  they  have  not  fired  a  shot." 

"Mutiny?"  Hamilton  demanded. 

"Not  just  that.  They  say  they  do  not  wish  to  fire 
on  their  kinsmen  and  friends.  They  are  all  French, 
you  know,  and  they  see  their  cousins,  brothers,  uncles 


Alice's  Flag  361 

and  old  acquaintances  out  there  in  Clark's  rabble.     I 
can  do  nothing  with  them." 

"Shoot  the  scoundrels,  then !" 

"It  will  be  a  toss  up  which  of  us  will  come  out  on 
top  if  we  try  that.  Besides,  if  we  begin  a  fight  inside, 
the  Americans  will  make  short  work  of  us." 

"Well,  what  in  hell  are  we  to  do,  then?" 

"Oh,  fight,  that's  all,"  said  Farnsworth  apathetically 
turning  to  a  small  loop-hole  and  leveling  a  field  glass 
through  it.  "We  might  make  a  rush  from  the  gates 
and  stampede  them,"  he  presently  added.  Then  he 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  great  surprise. 

"There's  Lieutenant  Beverley  out  there,"  he  ex 
claimed. 

"You're  mistaken,  you're  excited,"  Hamilton  half 
sneeringly  remarked,  yet  not  without  a  shade  of  un 
easiness  in  his  expression.  "You  forget,  sir." 

"Look  for  yourself,  it's  easily  settled,"  and  Farns 
worth  proffered  the  glass.  "He's  there,  to  a  certainty, 
sir." 

"I  saw  Beverley  an  hour  ago,"  said  Helm.  "I  knew 
all  the  time  that  he'd  be  on  hand." 

It  was  a  white  lie.  Captain  Helm  was  as  much  sur 
prised  as  his  captors  at  what  he  heard;  but  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  be  annoying. 

Hamilton  looked  as  Farnsworth  directed,  and  sure 
enough,  there  was  the  young  Virginian  Lieutenant, 
standing  on  a  barricade,  his  hat  off,  cheering  his  men 
with  a  superb  show  of  zeal.  Not  a  hair  of  his  head 
was  missing,  so  far  as  the  glass  could  be  relied  upou 
to  show. 


362         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Oncle  Jazon's  quick  old  eyes  saw  the  gleam  of  the 
telescope  tube  in  the  loop-hole. 

"I  never  could  shoot  much,"  he  muttered,  and  then 
a  little  bullet  sped  with  absolute  accuracy  from  his 
disreputable  looking  rifle  and  shattered  the  object-lens, 
just  as  Hamilton  moved  to  withdraw  the  glass,  utter 
ing  an  ejaculation  of  intense  excitement. 

"Such  devils  of  marksmen!"  said  he,  and  his  face 
was  haggard.  "That  infernal  Indian  lied." 

"I  could  have  told  you  all  the  time  that  the  scalp 
Long-Hair  brought  to  you  was  not  Beverley's,"  said 
Helm  indifferently.  "I  recognized  Lieutenant  Bar 
low's  hair  as  soon  as  I  saw  it." 

This  was  another  piece  of  off-hand  romance.  Helm 
did  not  dream  that  he  was  accidentally  sketching  a 
horrible  truth. 

"Barlow's!"  exclaimed  Farnsworth. 

"Yes,  Barlow's,  no  mistake " 

Two  more  men  reeled  from  a  port-hole,  the  blood 
spinning  far  out  of  their  wounds.  Indeed,  through 
every  aperture  in  the  walls  the  bullets  were  now  hum 
ming  like  mad  hornets. 

"Close  that  port-hole!"  stormed  Hamilton;  then 
turning  to  Farnsworth  he  added:  "We  cannot  en 
dure  this  long.  Shut  up  every  place  large  enough  for 
a  bullet  to  get  through.  Go  all  around,  give  strict 
orders  to  all.  See  that  the  men  do  not  foolishly  expose 
themselves.  Those  ruffians  out  there  have  located 
every  crack." 

His  glimpse  of  Beverley  and  the  sinister  remark  of 
Helm  had  completely  unmanned  him  before  his  men 


Alice's  Flag  363 

fell.  Now  it  rushed  upon  him  that  if  he  would  escape 
the  wrath  of  the  maddened  Creoles  and  the  vengeance 
of  Alice's  lover,  he  must  quickly  throw  himself  upon 
the  mercy  of  Clark.  It  was  his  only  hope.  He  chafed 
inwardly,  but  bore  himself  with  stern  coolness.  He 
presently  sought  Farnsworth,  pulled  him  aside  and 
suggested  that  something  must  be  done  to  prevent  an 
assault  and  a  massacre.  The  sounds  outside  seemed 
to  forebode  a  gathering  for  a  desperate  rush,  and  in 
his  heart  he  felt  all  the  terrors  of  awful  anticipation. 

"We  are  completely  at  their  mercy,  that  is  plain," 
he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  gazing  at  the 
wounded  men  writhing  in  their  agony.  "What  do  you 
suggest  ?" 

Captain  Farnsworth  was  a  shrewd  officer.  He  recol 
lected  that  Philip  Dejean,  justice  of  Detroit,  was  on 
his  way  down  the  Wabash  from  that  post,  and  prob 
ably  near  at  hand,  with  a  flotilla  of  men  and  supplies. 
Why  not  ask  for  a  few  days  of  truce  ?  It  could  do  no 
harm,  and  if  agreed  to,  might  be  their  salvation.  Ham 
ilton  jumped  at  the  thought,  and  forthwith  drew  up 
a  note  which  he  sent  out  with  a  white  flag.  Never  be 
fore  in  all  his  military  career  had  he  been  so  comforted 
by  a  sudden  cessation  of  fighting.  His  soul  would 
grovel  in  spite  of  him.  Alice's  cold  face  now  had 
Beverley's  beside  it  in  his  field  of  inner  vision — a 
double  assurance  of  impending  doom,  it  seemed  to 
him. 

There  was  short  delay  in  the  arrival  of  Colonel 
Clark's  reply,  hastily  scrawled  on  a  bit  of  soiled  paper. 


364        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

The  request  for  a  truce  was  flatly  refused ;  but  the  note 
closed  thus: 

"If  Mr.  Hamilton  is  Desirous  of  a  Conferance  with 
Col.  Clark  he  will  meet  him  at  the  Church  with  Captn. 
Helms." 

The  spelling  was  not  very  good,  and  there  was  a 
redundancy  of  capital  letters;  yet  Hamilton  under 
stood  it  all ;  and  it  was  very  difficult  for  him  to  conceal 
his  haste  to  attend  the  proposed  conference.  But  he 
was  afraid  to  go  to  the  church — the  thought  chilled 
him.  He  could  not  face  Father  Beret,  who  would 
probably  be  there.  And  what  if  there  should  be  evi 
dences  of  the  funeral? — what  if? — he  shuddered  and 
tried  to  break  away  from  the  vision  in  his  tortured 
brain. 

He  sent  a  proposition  to  Clark  to  meet  him  on  the 
esplanade  before  the  main  gate  of  the  fort;  but  Clark 
declined,  insisting  upon  the  church.  And  thither  he 
at  last  consented  to  go.  It  was  an  immense  brace  to 
his  spirit  to  have  Helm  beside  him  during  that  walk, 
which,  although  but  eighty  yards  in  extent,  seemed  to 
him  a  matter  of  leagues.  On  the  way  he  had  to  pass 
near  the  new  position  taken  up  by  Beverley  and  his 
men.  It  was  a  fine  test  of  nerve,  when  the  Lieuten 
ant's  eyes  met  those  of  the  Governor.  Neither  man 
permitted  the  slightest  change  of  countenance  to  be 
tray  his  feelings.  In  fact,  Beverley's  face  was  as  rigid 
as  marble ;  he  could  not  have  changed  it. 

But  with  Oncle  Jazon  it  was  a  different  affair.  He 
had  no  dignity  to  preserve,  no  fine  military  bearing  to 
justain,  no  terrible  tug  of  conscience,  no  paralyzing 


Alice's  Flag  365 

grip  of  despair  on  his  heart.  When  he  saw  Hamilton 
going  by,  bearing  himself  so  superbly,  it  affected  the 
French  volatility  in  his  nature  to  such  an  extent  that 
his  tongue  could  not  be  controlled. 

"Va  t'en,  bete,  forban,  meurtrier!  Skin  out  f'om 
here!  beast,  robber,  murderer!"  he  cried,  in  his  keen 
screech-owl  voice.  "I'll  git  thet  scelp  o'  your'n  afore 
sundown,  see  'f  I  don't !  Ye  onery  gal-killer  an'  ha'r 
buyer!" 

The  blood  in  Hamilton's  veins  caught  no  warmth 
from  these  remarks;  but  he  held  his  head  high  and 
passed  stolidly  on,  as  if  he  did  not  hear  a  word.  Helm 
turned  the  tail  of  an  eye  upon  Oncle  Jazon  and  gave 
him  a  droll,  quizzical  wink  of  approval.  In  response 
the  old  man  with  grotesque  solemnity  drew  his  buck- 
horn  handled  knife,  licked  its  blade  and  returned  it 
to  its  sheath, — a  bit  of  pantomime  well  understood  and 
keenly  enjoyed  by  the  onlooking  Creoles. 

"Putois!  coquin!"  they  jeered,  "goujat!  poltron!" 

Beverley  heard  the  taunting  racket,  but  did  not 
realize  it,  which  was  well  enough,  for  he  could  not 
have  restrained  the  bitter  effervescence.  He  stood  like 
a  statue,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  now  receding  figure, 
the  lofty,  cold-faced  man  in  whom  centered  his  hate 
of  hates.  Clark  had  requested  him  to  be  present  at 
the  conference  in  the  church ;  but  he  declined,  feeling 
that  he  could  not  meet  Hamilton  and  restrain  him 
self.  Now  he  regretted  his  refusal,  half  wishing  that 
— no,  he  could  not  assassinate  an  enemy  under  a  white 
flag.  In  his  heart  he  prayed  that  there  would  be  no 
surrender,  that  Hamilton  would  reject  every  offer. 


366          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

To  storm  the  fort  and  revel  in  butchering  its  garrison 
seemed  the  only  desirable  thing  left  for  him  in  life. 

Father  Beret  was,  indeed,  present  at  the  church,  as 
Hamilton  had  dreaded ;  and  the  two  duelists  gave  each 
other  a  rapier-like  eye-thrust.  Neither  spoke,  how 
ever,  and  Clark  immediately  demanded  a  settlement 
of  the  matter  in  hand.  He  was  brusque  and  imperi 
ous  to  a  degree,  apparently  rather  anxious  to  repel 
every  peaceful  advance. 

It  was  a  laconic  interview,  crisp  as  autumn  ice  and 
bitter  as  gallberries.  Colonel  Clark  had  no  respect 
whatever  for  Hamilton,  to  whom  he  had  applied  the 
imperishable  adjective  "hair-buyer  General."  On  the 
other  hind  Governor  Hamilton,  who  felt  keenly  the 
disgrace  of  having  to  equalize  himself  officially  and 
discuss  terms  of  surrender  with  a  rough  backwoods 
man,  could  not  conceal  his  contempt  of  Clark. 

The  five  men  of  history,  Hamilton,  Helm,  Hay, 
Clark  and  Bowman,  were  not  distinguished  diplomats. 
They  went  at  their  work  rather  after  the  hammer-and- 
tongs  fashion.  Clark  bluntly  demanded  unconditional 
surrender.  Hamilton  refused.  They  argued  the  mat 
ter.  Helm  put  in  his  oar,  trying  to  soften  the  situa 
tion,  as  was  his  custom  on  all  occasions,  and  received 
from  Clark  a  stinging  reprimand,  with  the  reminder 
that  he  was  nothing  but  a  prisoner  on  parole,  and  had 
no  voice  at  all  in  settling  the  terms  of  surrender. 

"I  release  him,  sir,"  said  Hamilton.  "He  is  no 
longer  a  prisoner.  I  am  quite  willing  to  have  Captain 
Helm  join  freely  in  our  conference." 

"Arid  I  refuse  to  permit  his  acceptance  of  your 


Alice's  Flag  367 

favor,"  responded  Clark.  "Captain  Helm,  you  will 
return  with  Mr.  Hamilton  to  the  fort  and  remain  his 
captive  until  I  free  you  by  force.  Meantime  hold  your 
tongue." 

Father  Beret,  suave  looking  and  quiet,  occupied 
himself  at  the  little  altar,  apparently  altogether  indif 
ferent  to  what  was  being  said ;  but  he  lost  not  a  word 
of  the  talk. 

"Qui  habet  aures  audiendl,  audiat,"  he  inwardly  re 
peated,  smiling  blandly.  "Gandete  in  ilia  die,  et  ex 
ult  ate!" 

Hamilton  rose  to  go;  deep  lines  of  worry  creased 
his  face;  but  when  the  party  had  passed  outside,  he 
suddenly  turned  upon  Clark  and  said: 

"Why  do  you  demand  impossible  terms  of  me?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  sir,"  was  the  stern  answer,  in  a  tone 
in  which  there  was  no  mercy  or  compromise. 
"I  would  rather  have  you  refuse.  I  desire 
nothing  so  much  as  an  excuse  to  wreak  full 
and  bloody  vengeance  on  every  man  in  that  fort  who 
has  engaged  in  the  business  of  employing  savages  to 
scalp  brave,  patriotic  men  and  defenseless  women  and 
children.  The  cries  of  the  widows  and  the  fatherless 
on  our  frontiers  require  the  blood  of  the  Indian  parti 
sans  at  my  hands.  If  you  choose  to  risk  the  massacre 
of  your  garrison  to  save  those  despicable  red-handed 
partisans,  have  your  pleasure.  What  you  have  done 
you  know  better  than  I  do.  I  have  a  duty  to  perform. 
You  may  be  able  to  soften  its  nature.  I  may  take  it 
into  my  head  to  send  for  some  of  our  bereaved  women 


368          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

to  witness  my  terrible  work  and  see  that  it  is  well  done, 
if  you  insist  upon  the  worst." 

Major  Hay,  who  was  Hamilton's  Indian  agent,  now, 
with  some  difficulty  clearing  his  throat,  spoke  up. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  he,  "who  is  it  that  you  call  Indian 
partisans  ?" 

"Sir."  replied  Clark,  seeing  that  his  words  had  gone 
solidly  home,  "I  take  Major  Hay  to  be  one  of  the 
principals." 

This  seemed  to  strike  Hay  with  deadly  force.  Clark's 
report  says  that  he  was  "pale  and  trembling,  scarcely 
able  to  stand,"  and  that  "Hamilton  blushed,  and,  I 
observed,  was  much  affected  at  his  behavior."  Doubt 
less,  if  the  doughty  American  commander  had  known 
more  about  the  Governor's  feelings  just  then,  he  would 
have  added  that  an  awful  fear,  even  greater  than  the 
Indian  agent's,  did  more  than  anything  else  to  congest 
the  veins  in  his  face. 

The  parties  separated  without  reaching  an  agree 
ment;  but  the  end  had  come.  The  terror  in  Hamil 
ton's  soul  was  doubled  by  a  wild  scene  enacted  under 
the  walls  of  his  fort;  a  scene  which,  having  no  proper 
place  in  this  story,  strong  as  its  historical  interest  un 
questionably  is,  must  be  but  outlined.  A  party  of 
Indians  returning  from  a  scalping  expedition  in  Ken 
tucky  and  along  the  Ohio,  was  captured  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town  by  some  of  Clark's  men,  who  pro 
ceeded  to  kill  and  scalp  them  within  full  view  of  the 
beleaguered  garrison,  after  which  their  mangled  bodies 
were  flung  into  the  river. 

If  the  British  commander  needed  further  wine  of 


Alice's  Flag  369 

dread  to  fill  his  cup  withal,  it  was  furnished  by  an 
ostentatious  marshaling  of  the  American  forces  for  a 
general  assault.  His  spirit  broke  completely,  so  that 
it  looked  like  a  godsend  to  him  when  Clark  finally 
offered  terms  of  honorable  surrender,  the  consumma 
tion  of  which  was  to  be  postponed  until  the  following 
morning.  He  accepted  promptly,  appending  to  the  arti 
cles  of  capitulation  the  following  reasons  for  his  action  : 
"The  remoteness  from  succor;  the  state  and  quantity 
of  provisions,  etc.;  unanimity  of  officers  and  men  in 
its  expediency;  the  honorable  terms  allowed;  and, 
lastly,  the  confidence  in  a  generous  enemy." 

Confidence  in  a  generous  enemy  !  Abject  fear  of  the 
vengeance  just  wreaked  upon  his  savage  emissaries 
would  have  been  the  true  statement.  Beverley  read 
the  paper  when  Clark  sent  for  him,  but  he  could  not 
join  in  the  extravagant  delight  of  his  fellow  officers 
and  their  brave  men.  What  did  all  this  victory  mean 
to  him?  Hamilton  to  be  treated  as  an  honorable  pris 
oner  of  war,  permitted  to  strut  forth  from  the  fort 
with  his  sword  at  his  side,  his  head  up — the  scalp- 
buyer,  the  murderer  of  Alice !  What  was  patriotism  to 
the  crushed  heart  of  a  lover?  Even  if  his  vision  had 
been  able  to  pierce  the  future  and  realize  the  splendor 
of  Anglo-Saxon  civilization  which  was  to  follow  that 
little  triumph  at  Vincennes,  what  pleasure  could  it 
have  afforded  him  ?  Alice,  Alice,  only  Alice ;  no  other 
thought  had  influence,  save  the  recurring  surge  of  de 
sire  for  vengeance  upon  her  murderer. 

And  yet  that  night  Beverley  slept,  and  so  forgot  his 
despair  for  many  hours,  even  dreamed  a  pleasant  dream 


370         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

of  home,  where  his  childhood  was  spent,  of  the  stately 
old  house  on  the  breezy  hill-top  overlooking  a  sunny 
plantation,  with  a  little  river  lapsing  and  shimmering 
through  it.  His  mother's  dear  arms  were  around  him, 
her  loving  breath  stirred  his  hair;  and  his  stalwart, 
gray-headed  father  sat  on  the  veranda  comfortably 
smoking  his  pipe,  while  away  in  the  wide  fields  the 
negroes  sang  at  the  plow  and  the  hoe.  Sweeter  and 
sweeter  grew  the  scene,  softer  the  air,  tenderer  the 
blending  sounds  of  the  water-murmur,  leaf-rustle, 
bird-song,  and  slave-song,  until  hand  in  hand  he  wan 
dered  with  Alice  in  greening  groves,  where  the  air 
was  trembling  with  the  ecstacy  of  spring. 

A  young  officer  awoke  him  with  an  order  from 
Clark  to  go  on  duty  at  once  with  Captains  Worthing- 
ton  and  Williams,  who,  under  Colonel  Clark  himself, 
were  to  take  possession  of  the  fort.  Mechanically  he 
obeyed.  The  sun  was  far  up,  shining  between  clouds 
of  a  leaden,  watery  hue,  by  the  time  everything  was 
ready  for  the  important  ceremony.  Beside  the  main 
gate  of  the  stockade  two  companies  of  patriots  under 
Bowman  and  McCarty  were  drawn  up  as  guards,  while 
the  British  garrison  filed  out  and  was  taken  in  charge. 
This  bit  of  formality  ended,  Governor  Hamilton,  at 
tended  by  some  of  his  officers,  went  back  into  the  fort 
and  the  gate  was  closed. 

Clark  now  gave  orders  that  preparations  be  made 
for  hauling  down  the  British  flag  and  hoisting  the 
young  banner  of  liberty  in  its  place,  when  everything 
should  be  ready  for  a  salute  of  thirteen  guns  from  the 
captured  battery. 


Alice's  Flag  371 

Helm's  round  face  was  beaming.  Plainly  it  showed 
that  his  happiness  was  supreme.  He  dared  not  say 
anything,  however;  for  Clark  was  now  all  sternness 
and  formality;  it  would  be  dangerous  to  take  any  lib 
erties;  but  he  could  smile  and  roll  his  quid  of  tobacco 
from  cheek  to  cheek. 

Hamilton  and  Farnsworth,  the  latter  slightly 
wounded  in  the  left  arm,  which  was  bandaged,  stood 
together  somewhat  apart  from  their  fellow  officers, 
while  preliminary  steps  for  celebrating  their  de 
feat  and  capture  were  in  progress.  They  looked  for 
lorn  enough  to  have  excited  deep  sympathy  under 
fairer  conditions. 

Outside  the  fort  the  Creoles  were  beginning  a  noise 
of  jubilation.  The  rumor  of  what  was  going  to  be 
done  had  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  until  every 
soul  in  the  town  knew  and  thrilled  with  expect 
ancy.  Men,  women  and  children  came  swarming  to 
see  the  sight,  and  to  hear  at  close  range  the  crash  of 
the  cannon.  They  shouted,  in  a  scattering  way  at 
first,  then  the  tumult  grew  swiftly  to  a  solid  rolling  tide 
that  seemed  beyond  all  comparison  with  the  population 
of  Vincennes.  Hamilton  heard  it,  and  trembled  in 
wardly,  afraid  lest  the  mob  should  prove  too  strong 
for  the  guard. 

One  leonine  voice  roared  distinctly,  high  above  the 
noise.  It  was  a  sound  familiar  to  all  the  Creoles, — that 
bellowing  shout  of  Gaspard  Roussillon's.  He  was 
roaming  around  the  stockade,  having  been  turned  back 
by  the  guard  when  he  tried  to  pass  through  the  main 
gate. 


372         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

"They  shut  me  out !"  he  bellowed  furiously.  "I  am 
Gaspard  Roussillon,  and  they  shut  me  out,  me!  Ziff! 
me  void!  je  vais  entrer  imincdiatemetit,  moil" 

He  attracted  but  little  attention,  however;  the  peo 
ple  and  the  soldiery  were  all  too  excited  by  the 
special  interest  of  the  occasion,  and  too  busy  with 
making  a  racket  of  their  own,  for  any  individual,  even 
the  great  Roussillon,  to  gain  their  eyes  or  ears.  He 
in  turn  scarcely  heard  the  tumult  they  made,  so  self- 
centered  were  his  burning  thoughts  and  feelings.  A 
great  occasion  in  Vincennes  and  he,  Gaspard  Roussil 
lon,  not  recognized  as  one  of  the  large  factors  in  it! 
Ah,  no,  never!  And  he  strode  along  the  wall  of  the 
stockade,  turning  the  corners  and  heavily  shambling 
over  the  inequalities  till  he  reached  the  postern.  It 
was  not  fastened,  some  one  having  passed  through 
just  before  him. 

"Ziff!"  he  ejaculated,  stepping  into  the  area  and 
shaking  himself  after  the  manner  of  a  dusty  mastiff. 
"C'est  moil  Gaspard  Roussillon!"  His  massive  under 
jaw  was  set  like  that  of  a  vise,  yet  it  quivered  with 
rage,  a  rage  which  was  more  fiery  condensation  of  self- 
approval  than  anger. 

Outside  the  shouting,  singing  and  huzzahs  gath 
ered  strength  and  volume,  until  the  sound  became  a 
hoarse  roar.  Clark  was  uneasy;  he  had  overheard 
much  of  a  threatening  character  during  the  siege.  The 
Creoles  were,  he  knew,  justly  exasperated,  and  even 
his  own  men  had  been  showing  a  spirit  which  might 
easily  be  fanned  into  a  dangerous  flame  of  vengeance. 
He  was  very  anxious  to  have  the  formalities  of  taking 


Alice's  Flag  373 

possession  of  the  fort  over  with,  so  that  he  could  the 
better  control  his  forces.  Sending  for  Beverley  he 
assigned  him  to  the  duty  of  hauling  down  the  British 
flag  and  running  up  that  of  Virginia.  It  was  an  honor 
of  no  doubtful  sort,  which  under  different  circum 
stances  would  have  made  the  Lieutenant's  heart  glow» 
As  it  was,  he  proceeded  without  any  sense  of  pride  or 
pleasure,  moving  as  a  mere  machine  in  performing 
an  act  significant  beyond  any  other  done  west  of  the 
mountains,  in  the  great  struggle  for  American  inde 
pendence  and  the  control  of  American  territory. 

Hamilton  stood  a  little  way  from  the  foot  of  the 
tall  flag-pole,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  his  chin 
slightly  drawn  in,  his  brows  contracted,  gazing  steadily 
at  Beverley  while  he  was  untying  the  halyard,  which 
had  been  wound  around  the  pole's  base  about  three 
feet  above  the  ground.  The  American  troops  in  the 
fort  were  disposed  so  as  to  form  three  sides  of  a  hol 
low  square,  facing  inward.  Oncle  Jazon,  serving  as 
the  ornamental  extreme  of  one  line,  was  conspicuous 
for  his  outlandish  garb  and  unmilitary  bearing.  The 
silence  inside  the  stockade  offered  a  strong  contrast 
to  the  tremendous  roar  of  voices  outside.  Clark  made 
a  signal,  and  at  the  tap  of  a  drum,  Beverley  shook 
the  ropes  loose  and  began  to  lower  the  British  colors. 
Slowly  the  bright  emblem  of  earth's  mightiest  nation 
crept  down  in  token  of  the  fact  that  a  handful  of  back 
woodsmen  had  won  an  empire  by  a  splendid  stroke  of 
pure  heroism.  Beverley  detached  the  flag,  and  sa 
luting,  handed  it  to  Colonel  Clark.  Hamilton's  breast 
heaved  and  his  iron  jaws  tightened  their  pressure 


374          Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

until  the  lines  of  his  cheeks  were  deep  furrows  of 
pain. 

Father  Beret,  who  had  just  been  admitted,  quietly 
took  a  place  at  one  side  near  the  wall.  There  was  a 
fine,  warm,  benignant  smile  on  his  old  face,  yet  his 
powerful  shoulders  drooped  as  if  weighted  down  with 
a  heavy  load.  Hamilton  was  aware  when  he  entered, 
and  instantly  the  scene  of  their  conflict  came  into  his 
memory  with  awful  vividness,  and  he  saw  Alice  lying 
outstretched,  stark  and  cold,  the  shining  strand  of  hair 
fluttering  across  her  pallid  cheek.  Her  ghost  over 
shadowed  him. 

Just  then  there  was  a  bird-like  movement,  a  wing- 
like  rustle,  and  a  light  figure  flitted  swiftly  across  the 
area.  All  eyes  were  turned  upon  it.  Hamilton  re 
coiled,  as  pale  as  death,  half  lifting  his  hands,  as  if 
to  ward  off  a  deadly  blow,  and  then  a  gay  flag 
was  flung  out  over  his  head.  He  saw  before  him  the 
girl  he  had  shot ;  but  her  beautiful  face  was  not  waxen 
now,  nor  was  it  cold  or  lifeless.  The  rich  red  blood 
was  strong  under  the  browned,  yet  delicate  skin,  the 
eyes  were  bright  and  brave,  the  cherry  lips,  slightly 
apart,  gave  a  glimpse  of  pearl  white  teeth,  and  the 
•dimples, — those  roguish  dimples, — twinkled  sweetly. 

Colonel  Clark  looked  on  in  amazement,  and  in 
spite  of  himself,  in  admiration.  He  did  not  under 
stand;  the  sudden  incident  bewildered  him;  but  his 
virile  nature  was  instantly  and  wholly  charmed.  Some 
thing  like  a  breath  of  violets  shook  the  tenderest  chords 
of  his  heart. 

Alice  stood  firmly,  a  statue  of  triumph,  her  rigrh* 


Alice  stood  firmly,  a  statue  of  triumph,  holding  the  flag     p.  375' 


Alice's  Flag  375 

arm  outstretched,  holding  the  flag  high  above  Hamil 
ton's  head ;  and  close  by  her  side  the  little  hunchback 
Jean  was  posed  in  his  most  characteristic  attitude, 
gazing  at  the  banner  which  he  himself  had  stolen  and 
kept  hidden  for  Alice's  sake,  and  because  he  loved  ft. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  some  moments,  during 
which  Hamilton's  face  showed  that  he  was  ready  to 
collapse;  then  the  keen  voice  of  Oncle  Jazon  broke 
forth : 

"Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!  Vive  la  banniere  d' Alice 
Roussillon  !*' 

He  sprang  to  the  middle  of  the  area  and  flung  his 
old  cap  high  in  air,  with  a  shrill  war-whoop. 

"H'ist  it !  h'ist  it !  hisses  la  banniere  de  Mademoi 
selle  Alice  Roussillon!  Voila,  que  c'est  glorieuse,  cette 
banniere  la!"  H'ist  it!  h'ist  it!" 

He  was  dancing  with  a  rickety  liveliness,  his  goatish 
legs  and  shriveled  body  giving  him  the  look  of  an 
emaciated  satyr. 

Clark  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  Creole  officers 
the  story  of  how  Alice  raised  the  flag  when  Helm  took 
the  fort,  and  how  she  snatched  it  from  Hamilton's 
hand,  as  it  were,  and  would  not  give  it  up  when  he 
demanded  it.  The  whole  situation  pretty  soon  began 
to  explain  itself,  as  he  saw  what  Alice  was  doing. 
Then  he  heard  her  say  to  Hamilton,  while  she  slowly 
swayed  the  rippling  flag  bacK  ana  forth : 

"I  said,  as  you  will  remember,  Monsieur  le  Gouv- 
erneur,  that  when  you  next  should  see  this  flag,  I 
should  wave  it  over  your  head.  Well,  look,  I  am  wav 
ing  it!  Vive  la  republique!  Vive  George  Washing- 


376        Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

ton!  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Monsieur  le  Gouv* 
erneur?" 

The  poor  little  hunchback  Jean  took  off  his  cap  and 
tossed  it  in  rhythmical  emphasis,  keeping  time  to  her 
words. 

And  now  from  behind  the  hollow  square  came  a 
mighty  voice: 

"Cest  moi,  Gaspard  Roussillon;  me  void,  mes 
sieurs!" 

There  was  a  spirit  in  the  air  which  caught  from 
Alice  a  thrill  of  romantic  energy.  The  men  in  the 
ranks  and  the  officers  in  front  of  them  felt  a  wave  of 
irresistible  sympathy  sweep  through  their  hearts. 
Her  picturesque  beauty,  her  fine  temper,  the  fitness  of 
the  incident  to  the  occasion,  had  an  instantaneous 
power  which  moved  all  men  alike. 

"Raise  her  flag!  Run  up  the  young  lady's  flag!" 
some  one  shouted,  and  then  every  voice  seemed  to 
echo  the  words.  Clark  was  a  young  man  of  noble 
type,  in  whose  veins  throbbed  the  warm  chivalrous 
blood  of  the  cavaliers.  A  waft  of  the  suddenly  pre 
vailing  influence  bore  him  also  quite  off  his  feet.  He 
turned  to  Beverley  and  said : 

"Do  it!  It  will  have  a  great  effect.  It  is  a  good 
idea ;  get  the  young  lady's  flag  and  her  permission  to 
run  it  up." 

Before  he  finished  speaking,  indeed  at  the  first 
glance,  he  saw  that  Beverley,  like  Hamilton,  was  white 
as  a  dead  man;  and  at  the  same  time  it  came  to  his 
memory  that  his  young  friend  had  confided  to  him, 


Alice's  Flag  377 

during  the  awful  march  through  the  prairie  wilder 
ness,  a  love-story  about  this  very  Alice  Roussillon.  In 
the  worry  and  stress  of  the  subsequent  struggle,  he 
had  forgotten  the  tender  basis  upon  which  Beverley 
had  rested  his  excuse  for  leaving  Vincennes.  Now 
it  all  reappeared  in  justification  of  what  was  going  on. 
It  touched  the  romantic  core  of  his  southern  nature. 

"I  say,  Lieutenant  Beverley,"  he  repeated,  "beg  the 
young  lady's  permission  to  use  her  flag  upon  this  glori 
ous  occasion ;  or  shall  I  do  it  for  you  ?" 

There  were  no  miracles  in  those  brave  days,  and  the 
strain  of  life  with  its  terrible  realities  braced  all  men 
and  women  to  meet  sudden  explosions  of  surprise, 
whether  of  good  or  bad  effect,  with  admirable  equi 
poise;  but  Beverley's  trial,  it  must  be  admitted,  was 
extraordinary ;  still  he  braced  himself  quickly  and  his 
whole  expression  changed  when  Clark  moved  to  go 
to  Alice.  For  he  realized  now  that  it  was,  indeed; 
Alice  in  flesh  and  blood,  standing  there,  the  center 
of  admiration,  filling  the  air  with  her  fine  magnetism 
and  crowning  a  great  triumph  with  her  beauty.  He 
gave  her  a  glad,  flashing  smile,  as  if  he  had  just  dis 
covered  her,  and  walked  straight  to  her,  his  hands  ex 
tended.  She  was  not  looking  toward  him ;  but  she  saw 
him  and  turned  to  face  him.  Hers  was  the  advantage ; 
for  she  had  known,  for  some  hours,  of  his  presence  in 
Vincennes,  and  had  prepared  herself  to  meet  him  cour 
ageously  and  with  maidenly  reserve. 

There  is  no  safety,  however,  where  Love  lurks. 
Neither  Beverley  nor  Alice  was  as  much  agitated  as 


378         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Hamilton,  yet  they  both  forgot,  what  he  remembered, 
that  a  hundred  grim  frontier  soldiers  were  looking  on. 
Hamilton  had  his  personal  and  official  dignity  to  sus 
tain,  and  he  fairly  did  it,  under  what  a  pressure  of  hu 
miliating  and  surprising  circumstances  we  can  fully 
comprehend.  Not  so  with  the  two  young  people,  stand 
ing  as  it  were  in  a  suddenly  bestowed  and  incomparable 
happiness,  on  the  verge  of  a  new  life,  each  to  the  other 
an  unexpected,  unhoped-for  resurrection  from  the 
dead.  To  them  there  was  no  universe  save  the  illimit 
able  expanse  of  their  love.  In  that  moment  of  meet 
ing,  all  that  they  had  suffered  on  account  of  love  was 
transfused  and  poured  forth, — a  glowing  libation  for 
love's  sake, — a  flood  before  which  all  barriers  broke. 

Father  Beret  was  looking  on  with  a  strange  fire 
in  his  eyes,  and  what  he  feared  would  happen,  did  hap 
pen.  Alice  let  the  flag  fall  at  Hamilton's  feet,  when 
Beverley  came  near  her  smiling  that  great,  glad  smile, 
and  with  a  joyous  cry  leaped  into  his  outstretched  arms. 

Jean  snatched  up  the  fallen  banner  and  ran  to  Col 
onel  Clark  with  it.  Two  minutes  later  it  was  made 
fast  and  the  halyard  began  to  squeak  through  the  rude 
pulley  at  the  top  of  the  pole.  Up,  up,  climbed  the  gay 
little  emblem  of  glory,  while  the  cannon  crashed  from 
the  embrasures  of  the  blockhouse  hard  by,  and  outside 
the  roar  of  voices  redoubled.  Thirteen  guns  boomed 
the  salute,  though  it  should  have  been  fourteen, — the 
additional  one  for  the  great  Northwestern  Territory, 
that  day  annexed  to  the  domain  of  the  young  Amer 
ican  Republic.  The  flag  went  up  at  old  Vincennes 


Alice's  Flag  379 

never  to  come  down  again,  and  when  it  reached  its 
place  at  the  top  of  the  staff,  Beverley  and  Alice  stood 
side  by  side  looking  at  it,  while  the  sun  broke  through 
the  clouds  and  flashed  on  its  shining  folds,  and  love 
unabashed  glorified  the  two  strong  young  faces. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SOME   TRANSACTIONS    IN    SCALPS 

History  would  be  a  very  orderly  affair,  could  the 
dry-as-dust  historians  have  their  way,  and  doubtless 
it  would  be  thrillingly  romantic  at  every  turn  if  the 
novelists  were  able  to  control  its  current.  Fortunately 
neither  one  nor  the  other  has  much  influence,  and  the 
result,  in  the  long  run,  is  that  most  novels  are  shock 
ingly  tame,  while  the  large  body  of  history  is  loaded 
down  with  picturesque  incidents,  which  if  used  in  fic 
tion,  would  be  thought  absurdly  romantic  and  im 
probable. 

Were  our  simple  story  of  old  Vincennes  a  mere  fic 
tion,  we  should  hesitate  to  bring  in  the  explosion  of  a 
magazine  at  the  fort  with  a  view  to  sudden  confusion 
and,  by  that  means,  distracting  attention  from  our 
heroine  while  she  betakes  herself  out  of  a  situation 
which,  although  delightful  enough  for  a  blessed  min 
ute,  has  quickly  become  an  embarrassment  quite  un 
endurable.  But  we  simply  adhere  to  the  established 
facts  in  history.  Owing  to  some  carelessness  there 
was,  indeed,  an  explosion  of  twenty-six  six-pound 
cartridges,  which  made  a  mighty  roar  and  struck  the 
newly  installed  garrison  into  a  heap,  so  to  say,  scatter* 
ing  things  terribly  and  wounding  six  men,  among  them 
Captains  Bowman  and  Worthington. 

After  the  thunderous  crash  came  a  momentary  si- 
fcsnce,  which  embraced  both  the  people  within  the  forf 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     381 

and  the  wild  crowd  outside.  Then  the  rush  and  noise 
were  indescribable.  Even  Clark  gave  way  to  excite 
ment,  losing  command  of  himself  and,  of  course,  of  his 
men.  There  was  a  stampede  toward  the  main  gate  by 
one  wing  of  the  troops  in  the  hollow  square.  They 
literally  ran  over  Beverley  and  Alice,  flinging  them 
apart  and  jostling  them  hither  and  yonder  without 
mercy.  Of  course  the  turmoil  quickly  subsided. 
Clark  and  Beverley  got  hold  of  themselves  and  sang 
out  their  peremptory  orders  with  excellent  effect.  It 
was  like  oil  on  raging  water;  the  men  obeyed  in  a 
straggling  way,  getting  back  into  ranks  as  best  they 
could. 

"Ventrebleu!"  squeaked  Oncle  Jazon,  "ef  I  didn't 
think  the  ole  world  had  busted  into  a  million  pieces!" 

He  was  jumping  up  and  down  not  three  feet  from 
Beverley's  toes,  waving  his  cap  excitedly. 

"But  wasn't  I  skeert !  Ya,  ya,  ya !  Vive  la  banniere 
d' Alice  Roussillon!  Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!" 

Hearing  Alice's  name  caused  Beverley  to  look 
around.  Where  was  she?  In  the  distance  he  saw 
Father  Beret  hurrying  to  the  spot  where  some  of  the 
men  burnt  and  wounded  by  the  explosion  were  being 
stripped  and  cared  for.  Hamilton  still  stood  like  a 
statue.  He  appeared  to  be  the  only  cool  person  in  the 
fort. 

"Where  is  Alice? — Miss  Roussillon — where  did 
Miss  Roussillon  go?"  Beverley  exclaimed,  staring 
•around  like  a  lost  man.  "Where  is  she?" 

"D'know,"  said  Oncle  Jazon,  resuming  his  habitual 
expression  of  droll  dignity,  "she  shot  apast  me  jes'  as 


382         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

thet  thing  busted  loose,  an'  she  went  like  er  humnutf 
bird,  skitch! — jes'  thet  way — an'  I  didn't  see  'r  no 
more.  'Cause  I  was  skeert  mighty  nigh  inter  seven 
fits;  'spect  that  'splosion  blowed  her  clean  away! 
Ventrebleu!  never  was  so  plum  outen  breath  an'  dead 
crazy  weak  o'  bein'  afeardi" 

"Lieutenant  Beverley,"  roared  Clark  in  his  most 
commanding  tone,  "go  to  the  gate  and  settle  things 
there.  That  mob  outside  is  trying  to  break  in !" 

The  order  was  instantly  obeyed,  but  Beverley  had 
relapsed.  Once  more  his  soul  groped  in  darkness, 
while  the  whole  of  his  life  seemed  unreal,  a  wavering, 
misty,  hollow  dream.  And  yet  his  military  duty  was 
all  real  enough.  He  knew  just  what  to  do  when  he 
reached  the  gate. 

"Back  there  at  once!"  he  commanded,  not  loudly, 
but  with  intense  force,  "back  there !"  This  to  the  in 
ward  surging  wedge  of  excited  outsiders.  Then  to 
the  guard. 

"Shoot  the  first  man  who  crosses  the  line !" 

"Ziff!  me  void!  moil  Caspar d  Roussillon.  Laissez- 
moi  passer,  messieurs." 

A  great  body  hurled  itself  frantically  past  Beverley 
and  the  guard,  going  out  through  the  gateway  against 
the  wall  of  the  crowd,  bearing  everything  before  it  and 
shouting : 

"Back,  fools !  you'll  all  be  killed — the  powder  is  on 
fire!  Ziff!  run!" 

Wild  as  a  March  hare,  he  bristled  with  terror  and 
foamed  at  the  mouth.  He  stampeded  the  entire  mass. 
There  was  a  wild  howl ;  a  rush  in  the  other  direction 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     383 

followed,  and  soon  enough  the  esplanade  and  all  the 
space  back  to  the  barricades  and  beyond  were  quite 
deserted. 

Alice  was  not  aware  that  a  serious  accident  had 
happened.  Naturally  she  thought  the  great,  rattling, 
crashing  noise  of  the  explosion  a  mere  part  of  the 
spectacular  show.  When  the  rush  followed,  separating 
her  and  Beverley,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her  in  some 
way;  for  a  sudden  recognition  of  the  boldness  of  her 
action  in  the  little  scene  just  ended,  came  over  her  and 
bewildered  her.  An  impulse  sent  her  running  away 
from  the  spot  where,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  had  invited 
public  derision.  The  terrible  noises  all  around  her 
were,  she  now  fancied,  but  the  jeering  and  hooting  of 
rude  men  who  had  seen  her  unmaidenly  forwardness. 

With  a  burning  face  she  flew  to  the  postern  and 
slipped  out,  once  more  taking  the  course  which  had 
become  so  familiar  to  her  feet.  She  did  not  slacken 
her  speed  until  she  reached  the  Bourcier  cabin, 
where  she  had  made  her  home  since  the  night  when 
Hamilton's  pistol  ball  struck  her.  The  little  domicile 
was  quite  empty  of  its  household,  but  Alice  entered 
and  flung  herself  into  a  chair,  where  she  sat  quivering 
and  breathless  when  Adrienne,  also  much  excited, 
came  in,  preceded  by  a  stream  of  patois  that  sparkled 
continuously. 

"The  fort  is  blown  up!"  she  cried,  gesticulating  in 
every  direction  at  once,  her  petite  figure  comically 
dilated  with  the  importance  of  her  statement.  "A 
hundred  men  are  killed,  and  the  powder  is  on  fire!" 

She  pounced  into  Alice's  arms,  still  talking  as  fast 


384         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

as  her  tongue  could  vibrate,  changing  from  subject  to 
subject  without  rhyme  or  reason,  her  prattle  making 
its  way  by  skips  and  shies  until  what  was  really  upper 
most  in  her  sweet  little  heart  disclosed  itself. 

"And,  O  Alice !    Rene  has  not  come  yet !" 

She  plunged  her  dusky  face  between  Alice's  cheek 
and  shoulder;  Alice  hugged  her  sympathetically  and 
said: 

"But  Rene  will  come,  I  know  he  will,  dear." 

"Oh,  but  do  you  know  it?  is  it  true?  who  told 
you?  when  will  he  come?  where  is  he?  tell  me 
about  him!" 

Her  head  popped  up  from  her  friend's  neck  and  she 
smiled  brilliantly  through  the  tears  that  were  still 
sparkling  on  her  long  black  lashes. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  I  had  heard  from  him,  and  I 
don't  know  where  he  is;  but — but  they  always  come 
back." 

"You  say  that  because  your  man — because  Lieuten 
ant  Beverley  has  returned.  It  is  always  so.  You  have 
everything  to  make  you  happy,  while  I — I — " 

Again  her  eyes  spilled  their  shower,  and  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands  which  Alice  tried  in  vain  to  remove. 

"Don't  cry,  Adrienne.    You  didn't  see  me  crying — " 

"No,  of  course  not;  you  didn't  have  a  thing  to  cry 
about.  Lieutenant  Beverley  told  you  just  where  he  was 
going  and  just  what " 

"But  think,  Adrienne,  only  think  of  the  awful  story 
they  told — that  he  was  killed,  that  Governor  Hamilton 
had  paid  Long-Hair  for  killing  him  and  bringing  back 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     385 

his  scalp — oh  dear,  just  think  1  And  I  thought  it  was 
true." 

"Well,  I'd  be  willing  to  think  and  believe  anything 
in  the  world,  if  Rene  would  come  back,"  said  Adrienne, 
her  face,  now  uncovered,  showing  pitiful  lines  of  suf 
fering.  "O  Alice,  Alice,  and  he  never,  never  will 
come !" 

Alice  exhausted  every  device  to  cheer,  encourage 
and  comfort  her.  Adrienne  had  been  so  good  to  her 
when  she  lay  recovering  from  the  shock  of  Hamilton's 
pistol  bullet,  which,  although  it  came  near  killing  her, 
made  no  serious  wound — only  a  bruise,  in  fact.  It  was 
one  of  those  fortunate  accidents,  or  providentially  or 
dered  interferences,  which  once  in  a  while  save  a  life. 
The  stone  disc  worn  by  Alice  chanced  to  lie  exactly  in 
the  missile's  way,  and  while  it  was  not  broken,  the  ball, 
already  somewhat  checked  by  passing  through  several 
folds  of  Father  Beret's  garments,  flattened  itself  upon 
it  with  a  shock  which  somehow  struck  Alice  senseless. 

Here  again,  history  in  the  form  of  an  ancient  family 
document  (a  letter  written  in  1821  by  Alice  herself), 
gives  us  the  curious  brace  of  incidents,  to  wit,  the 
breaking  of  the  miniature  on  Beverley's  breast  by  a 
British  musket-ball,  and  the  stopping  of  Hamilton's 
bullet  over  Alice's  heart  by  the  Indian  charm-stone. 

"Which  shows  the  goodness  of  God,"  the  letter  goes 
on,  "and  also  seems  to  sustain  the  Indian  legend  con 
cerning  the  stone,  that  whoever  might  wear  it  could 
not  be  killed.  Unquestionable  (sic)  Mr.  Hamilton's 
shot,  which  was  aimed  at  poor,  dear  old  Father  Beret, 
would  have  pierced  my  heart,  but  for  that  charm-stone. 


386         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

As  for  my  locket,  it  did  not,  as  some  have  reported, 
save  Fitzhugh's  life  when  the  musket-ball  was  stopped. 
The  ball  was  so  spent  that  the  blow  was  only  hard 
enough  to  spoil  temporary  (sic)  the  face  of  the  mini 
ature,  which  was  afterwards  restored  fairly  well  by 
an  artist  in  Paris.  When  it  did  actually  save  Fitz 
hugh's  life  was  out  on  the  Illinois  plain.  The  savage, 
Long-Hair,  peace  to  his  memory,  worked  the  miracle  of 
restoring  to  me "  Here  a  fold  in  the  paper  has  de 
stroyed  a  line  of  the  writing. 

The  letter  is  a  sacred  family  paper,  and  there  is  not 
justification  for  going  farther  into  its  faded  and,  in 
some  parts,  almost  obliterated  writing.  But  so  much 
may  pass  into  these  pages  as  a  pleasant  authentication 
of  what  otherwise  might  be  altogether  too  sweet  a 
double  nut  for  the  critic's  teeth  to  crack. 

While  Adrienne  and  Alice  were  still  discussing  the 
probability  of  Rene  de  Ronville's  return,  M.  Roussil- 
lon  came  to  the  door.  He  was  in  search  of  Madame, 
his  wife,  whom  he  had  not  yet  seen. 

He  gathered  the  two  girls  in  his  mighty  arms, 
tousling  them  with  rough  tenderness.  Alice  returned 
his  affectionate  embrace  and  told  him  where  to  find 
Madame  Roussillon,  who  was  with  Dame  Godere, 
probably  at  her  house. 

"Nobody  killed,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Alice's  in 
quiry  about  the  catastrophe  at  the  fort.  "Some  of 
'em  hurt  and  burnt  a  little.  Great  big  scare  about 
nearly  nothing.  Ziff!  my  children,  you  should  have 
seen  me  quiet  things.  I  put  out  my  hands,  this  way — 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     387 

comme  ca — pouf!  It  was  all  over.  The  people  went 
home."  ' 

His  gestures  indicated  that  he  had  borne  back  an 
army  with  open  hands.  Then  he  chucked  Adrienne 
under  the  chin  with  his  finger  and  added  in  his  softest 
voice : 

"I  saw  somebody's  lover  the  other  day,  over  yonder 
in  the  Indian  village.  He  spoke  to  me  about  some 
body — eh,  ma  petite,  que  voulez-vous  dire?" 

"Oh,  Papa  Roussillon !  we  were  just  talking  about 
Rene!"  cried  Alice.  "Have  you  seen  him?" 

"I  saw  you,  you  little  minx,  jumping  into  a  man's 
arms  right  under  the  eyes  of  a  whole  garrison !  Bah ! 
I  could  not  believe  it  was  my  little  Alice !" 

He  let  go  a  grand  guffaw,  which  seemed  to  shake  the 
cabin's  walls.  Alice  blushed  cherry  red.  Adrienne, 
too  bashful  to  inquire  about  Rene,  was  trembling  with 
anxiety.  The  truth  was  not  in  Gaspard  Roussillon, 
just  then ;  or  if  it  was  it  stayed  in  him,  for  he  had  not 
seen  Rene  de  Ronville.  It  was  his  generous  desire  to 
please  and  to  appear  opulent  of  knowledge  and  sym 
pathy  that  made  him  speak.  He  knew  what  would 
please  Adrienne,  so  why  not  give  her  at  least  a  delic 
ious  foretaste  ?  Surely,  when  a  thing  was  so  cheap,  one 
need  not  be  so  parsimonious  as  to  withhold  a  mere 
anticipation.  He  was  off  before  the  girls  could  press 
him  into  details,  for  indeed  he  had  none. 

"There  now,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?"  cried  Alice,  when 
the  big  man  was  gone.  "I  told  you  Rene  would  come. 
They  always  come  back!" 

Father  Beret  came  in  a  little  later.    As  soon  as  he 


Alice  ot  Old  Vincennes 

saw  Alice  he  frowned  and  began  to  shake  his  head; 
but  she  only  laughed,  and  imitating  his  hypocritical 
scowl,  yet  fringing  it  with  a  twinkle  of  merry  lines 
and  dimples,  pointed  a  taper  finger  at  him  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"You  bad,  bad,  man!  why  did  you  pretend  to  me 
that  Lieutenant  Beverley  was  dead?  What  sinister 
ecclesiastical  motive  prompted  you  to  describe  how 
Long-Hair  scalped  him  ?  Ah,  Father " 

The  priest  laid  a  broad  hand  over  her  saucy  mouth. 

"Something  or  other  seems  to  have  excited  you 
mightily,  ma  fille,  you  are  a  trifle  impulsively  inclined 
to-day." 

"Yes,  Father  Beret ;  yes  I  know,  and  I  am  ashamed. 
My  heart  shrinks  when  I  think  of  what  I  did;  but  I 
was  so  glad,  such  a  grand  joy  came  all  over  me  when 
I  saw  him,  so  strong  and  brave  and  beautiful,  coming 
toward  me,  smiling  that  warm,  glad  smile  and  holding 
out  his  arms — ah,  when  I  saw  all  that — when  I  knew 
for  sure  that  he  was  not  dead — I,  why,  Father — I  just 
had  to,  I  couldn't  help  it !" 

Father  Beret  laughed  in  spite  of  himself,  but  quick 
ly  managed  to  resume  his  severe  countenance. 

"Ta !  ta !"  he  exclaimed,  "it  was  a  bold  thing  for  a 
little  girl  to  do." 

"So  it  was,  so  it  was.  But  it  was  also  a  bold  thing 
for  him  to  do — to  come  back  after  he  was  dead  and 
scalped  and  look  so  handsome  and  grand!  I'm 
ashamed  and  sorry,  Father;  but — but,  I'm  afraid  I 
might  do  it  again  if — well,  I  don't  care  if  I  did — so 
there,  now !" 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps 

"But  what  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?" 
interposed  Adrienne.  Evidently  they  were  discussing 
a  most  interesting  matter  of  which  she  knew  nothing, 
anc  that  did  not  suit  her  feminine  curiosity.  "Tell 
me."  She  pulled  Father  Beret's  sleeve.  "Tell  me,  I 
say!" 

It  is  probable  that  Father  Beret  would  have  pre 
tended  to  betray  Alice's  source  of  mingled  delight  and 
embarrassment,  had  not  the  rest  of  the  Bourcier  house 
hold  returned  in  time  to  break  up  the  conversation.  A 
little  later  Alice  gave  Adrienne  a  vividly  dramatic  ac 
count  of  the  whole  scene. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  the  petite  brunette,  after 
she  had  heard  the  exciting  story.  "That  was  just  like 
you,  Alice.  You  always  do  superb  things.  You  were 
born  to  do  them.  You  shoot  Captain  Farnsworth,  you 
wound  Lieutenant  Barlow,  you  climb  onto  the  fort  and 
set  up  your  flag — you  take  it  down  again  and  run  away 
with  it — you  get  shot  and  you  do  not  die — you  kiss 
your  lover  right  before  a  whole  garrison!  Bon  Dieu! 
if  I  could  but  do  all  those  things !"  She  clasped  her 
tiny  hands  before  her  and  added  rather  dejectedly: 

"But  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  kiss  a  man  in 
that  way!" 

Late  in  the  evening  news  came  to  Roussiilon  place, 
where  Gaspard  Roussiilon  was  once  more  happy  in  the 
midst  of  his  little  family,  that  the  Indian  Long-Hair 
had  just  been  brought  to  the  fort,  and  would  be  shot 
on  the  following  day.  A  scouting  party  captured  him 
as  he  approached  the  town,  bearing  at  his  belt  the  fresh 
scalp  of  a  white  man.  He  would  have  been  killed 


390          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

forthwith,  but  Clark,  who  wished  to  avoid  a  repetition 
of  the  savage  vengeance  meted  out  to  the  Indians  on 
the  previous  day,  had  given  strict  orders  that  all  pris 
oners  should  be  brought  into  the  fort,  where  they  were 
to  have  a  fair  trial  by  court  martial. 

Both  Helm  and  Beverley  were  at  Roussillon  place, 
the  former  sipping  wine  and  chatting  with  Gaspard. 
the  latter,  of  course,  hovering  around  Alice,  after  the 
manner  of  a  hungry  bee  around  a  particularly  sweet 
and  deliciously  refractory  flower.  It  was  raining  slow 
ly,  the  fine  drops  coming  straight  down  through  the 
cold,  still  February  air;  but  the  two  young  people 
found  it  pleasant  enough  for  them  on  the  veranda, 
where  they  walked  back  and  forth,  making  fair  ex 
change  of  the  exciting  experiences  which  had  befallen 
them  during  their  long  separation.  Between  the  lines 
of  these  mutual  recitals  sweet,  fresh  echoes  of  the  old, 
old  story  went  from  heart  to  heart,  an  amoebaean  love- 
bout  like  that  of  spring  birds  calling  tenderly  back 
and  forth  in  the  blooming  Maytime  woods. 

Both  Captain  Helm  and  M.  Roussillon  were  de 
lighted  to  hear  of  Long-Hair's  capture  and  certain 
fate,  but  neither  of  them  regarded  the  news  as  of  suf 
ficient  importance  to  need  much  comment.  They  did 
not  think  of  telling  Beverley  and  Alice.  Jean,  how 
ever,  lying  awake  in  his  little  bed,  overheard  the  con 
versation,  which  he  repeated  to  Alice  next  morning 
•with  great  circumstantiality. 

Having  the  quick  insight  bred  of  frontier  experi 
ence,  Alice  instantly  caught  the  terrible  significance  of 
the  dilemma  in  which  she  and  Beverley  would  te"  placed 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     391 

by  Long-Hair's  situation.  Moreover,  something  in 
her  heart  arose  with  irresistible  power  demanding  the 
final,  the  absolute  human  sympathy  and  gratitude. 
No  matter  what  deeds  Long-Hair  had  committed  that 
were  evil  beyond  forgiveness,  he  had  done  for  her  the 
all-atoning  thing.  He  had  saved  Beverley  and  sent 
him  back  to  her. 

With  a  start  and  a  chill  of  dread,  she  thought: 
"What  if  it  is  already  too  late!" 

But  her  nature  could  not  hesitate.  To  feel  the  de 
mand  of  an  exigency  was  to  act.  She  snatched  a  wrap 
from  its  peg  on  the  wall  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could 
to  the  fort.  People  who  met  her  flying  along  won 
dered,  staring  after  her,  what  could  be  urging  her  so 
that  she  saw  nobody,  checked  herself  for  nothing,  ran 
splashing  through  the  puddles  in  the  street,  gazing 
ahead  of  her,  as  if  pursuing  some  flying  object  from 
which  she  dared  not  turn  her  eyes. 

And  there  was,  indeed,  a  call  for  her  utmost  power 
of  flight,  if  she  would  be  of  any  assistance  to  Long- 
Hair,  who  even  then  stood  bound  to  a  stake  in  the  fort's 
area,  while  a  platoon  of  riflemen,  those  unerring  shots 
from  Kentucky  and  Virginia,  were  ready  to  make  a 
target  of  him  at  a  range  of  but  twenty  yards. 

Beverley,  greatly  handicapped  by  the  fact  that  the 
fresh  scalp  of  a  white  man  hung  at  Long-Hair's  belt, 
had  exhausted  every  possible  argument  to  avert  or 
mitigate  the  sentence  promptly  spoken  by  the  court 
martial  of  which  Colonel  Clark  was  the  ruling  spirit. 
He  had  succeeded  barely  to  the  extent  of  turning  the 
mode  of  execution  from  tomahawking  to  shooting,, 


392         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

All  the  officers  in  the  fort  approved  killing  the  prisoner, 
and  it  was  difficult  for  Colonel  Clark  to  prevent  the 
men  from  making  outrageous  assaults  upon  him,  so 
exasperated  were  they  at  sight  of  the  scalp. 

Oncle  Jazon  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  refractory 
among  those  who  demanded  tomahawking  and  scalping 
as  the  only  treatment  due  Long-Hair.  The  repulsive 
savage  stood  up  before  them  stolid,  resolute,  defiant, 
proudly  flaunting  the  badge  which  testified  to  his  hor 
rible  efficiency  as  an  emissary  of  Hamilton's.  It  had 
been  left  in  his  belt  by  Clark's  order,  as  the  best  justi 
fication  of  his  doom. 

"L*  me  hack  'is  damned  head,"  Oncle  Jazon  pleaded. 
"I  jes'  hankers  to  chop  a  hole  inter  it.  An'  besides  I 
want  'is  scelp  to  hang  up  wi'  mine  an*  that'n  o'  the 
Injun  what  scelped  me.  He  kicked  me  in  the  ribs,  the 
stinkin'  varmint." 

Beverley  pleaded  eloquently  and  well,  but  even  the 
genial  Major  Helm  laughed  at  his  sentiment  of  grati 
tude  to  a  savage  who  at  best  but  relented  at  the  last 
moment,  for  Alice's  sake,  and  concluded  not  to  sell 
him  to  Hamilton.  It  is  due  to  the  British  commander 
to  record  here  that  he  most  poskively  and  with  what 
appeared  to  be  high  sincerity,  denied  the  charge  of  hav 
ing  offered  rewards  for  the  taking  of  human  scalps. 
He  declared  that  his  purposes  and  practices  were  hu 
mane,  and  that  while  he  did  use  the  Indians  as  mili 
tary  allies,  his  orders  to  them  were  that  they  must 
forego  cruel  modes  of  warfare  and  refrain  from  savage 
outrage  upon  prisoners.  Certainly  the  weight  of  con 
temporary  testimony  seems  overwhelmingly  against 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     393 

him,  but  we  enter  his  denial.  Long-Hair  himself, 
however,  trunted  him  with  accusations  of  unfaithful 
ness  in  carrying  out  some  very  inhuman  contracts, 
and  to  add  a  terrible  sting,  volunteered  the  statement 
that  poor  Barlow's  scalp  had  served  his  turn  in  the 
place  of  Beverley's. 

With  conditions  so  hideous  to  contend  against,  Bev- 
erley,  of  course,  had  no  possible  means  of  succoring 
the  condemned  savage. 

"Him  a  kickin'  yer  ribs  clean  inter  ye,  an'  a  makin' 
ye  run  the  ga'ntlet,  an'  here  ye  air  a  tryin'  to  save  'is 
life !"  whined  Oncle  Jazon.  "W'y  man,  I  thought  ye 
hed  some  senterments !  Dast  'is  Injin  liver,  I  kin  feel 
them  kicks  what  he  guv  me  till  yit.  Ventrebleu!  que 
diable  voulez-vousf" 

Clark  simply  pushed  Beverley's  pleadings  aside  as 
not  worth  a  moment's  consideration.  He  easily  felt 
the  fine  bit  of  gratitude  at  the  bottom  of  it  all;  but 
there  was  too  much  in  the  other  side  of  the  balance; 
justice,  the  discipline  and  confidence  of  his  little  army, 
and  the  claim  of  the  women  and  children  on  the  fron 
tier  demanded  firmness  in  dealing  with  a  case  like 
Long-Hair's. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  to  Beverley,  "I  would  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  for  you,  Fitz,  except  to  swerve  an 
inch  from  duty  to  my  country  and  the  defenceless  peo 
ple  down  ycnder  in  Kentucky.  I  can't  do  it.  There's 
no  use  to  press  the  matter  further.  The  die  is  cast. 
That  brute's  got  to  be  killed,  and  killed  dead.  Look  at 
him— look  at  that  scalp!  I'd  have  him  killed  if  I 
dropped  dead  for  it  the  next  instant." 


594          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Beverley  shuddered.  The  argument  was  horribly 
convincing,  and  yet,  somehow,  the  desire  to  save  Long- 
Hair  overbore  everything  else  in  his  mind.  He  could 
not  cease  his  efforts ;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were 
pleading  for  Alice  herself.  Captain  Farnsworth, 
strange  to  say,  was  the  only  man  in  the  fort  who  leaned 
to  Beverley's  side ;  but  he  was  reticent,  doubtless  feel 
ing  that  his  position  as  a  British  prisoner  gave  him  no 
right  to  speak,  especially  when  every  lip  around  him 
was  muttering  something  about  "infamous  scalp-buy 
ers  and  Indian  partisans,"  with  whom  he  was  promi 
nently  counted  by  the  speakers. 

As  Clark  had  said,  the  die  was  cast.  Long-Hair, 
bound  to  a  slake,  the  scalp  still  dangling  at  his  side, 
grimly  faced  his  executioners,  who  were  eager  to  fire. 
He  appeared  to  be  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  was  going 
1o  be  killed. 

"One  thing  I  can  say  of  him,"  Helm  remarked  to 
Beverley;  "he's  the  grandest  specimen  of  the  animal 
— I  might  say  the  brute — man  that  I  ever  saw,  red, 
white  or  black.  Just  look  at  his  body  and  limbs! 
Those  muscles  are  perfectly  marvelous." 

"He  saved  my  life,  and  I  must  stand  here  and  see 
him  murdered,"  the  young  man  replied  with  intense 
bitterness.  It  was  all  that  he  could  think,  all  that  he 
could  say.  He  felt  inefficient  and  dejected,  almost 
desperate. 

Clark  himself,  not  willing  to  cast  responsibility  upon 
a  subordinate,  made  ready  to  give  the  fatal  order. 
Turning  to  Long-Hair  first,  he  demanded  of  him  as 
well  as  he  could  in  the  Indian  dialect  of  which  he  had 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     395 

a  smattering,  what  he  had  to  say  at  his  last  moment 

The  Indian  straightened  his  already  upright  form, 
and,  by  a  strong  bulging  of  his  muscles,  snapped  the 
thongs  that  bound  him.  Evidently  he  had  not  tried 
thus  to  free  himself;  it  was  rather  a  spasmodic  ex 
pression  of  savage  dignity  and  pride.  One  arm  and 
both  his  legs  still  were  partially  confined  by  the  bonds, 
but  his  right  hand  he  lifted,  with  a  gesture  of  immense 
self-satisfaction,  and  pointed  at  Hamilton. 

"Indian  brave ;  white  man  coward,"  he  said,  scowl 
ing  scornfully.  "Long- Hair  tell  truth;  white  man 
lie,  damn !" 

Hamilton's  countenance  did  not  change  its  calm, 
cold  expression.  Long-Hair  gazed  at  him  fixedly  for 
a  long  moment,  his  eyes  flashing  most  concentrated 
hate  and  contempt.  Then  he  tore  the  scalp  from  his 
belt  and  flung  it  with  great  force  straight  toward  the 
captive  Governor's  face.  It  fell  short,  but  the  look 
that  went  with  it  did  not,  and  Hamilton  recoiled. 

At  that  moment  Alice  arrived.  Her  coming  was 
just  in  time  to  interrupt  Clark,  who  had  turned  to  the 
waiting  platoon  with  the  order  of  death  on  his  lips. 
She  made  no  noise,  save  the  fluttering  of  her  skirts, 
and  her  loud  and  rapid  panting  on  account  of  her 
long,  hard  run.  She  sprang  before  Long-Hair  and 
faced  the  platoon. 

"You  cannot,  you  shall  not  kill  this  man !"  she  cried 
in  a  voice  loaded  with  excitement.  "Put  away  those 
guns !" 

Woman  never  looked  more  thrillingly  beautiful  to 
man  than  she  did  just  then  to  all  those  rough,  stern 


396         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

backwoodsmen.  During  her  flight  her  hair  had  fallen 
down,  and  it  glimmered  like  soft  sunlight  around  her 
face.  Something  compelling  flashed  out  of  her  eyes, 
an  expression  between  a  triumphant  smile  and  a  ray 
of  irresistible  beseechment.  It  took  Colonel  Clark's 
breath  when  he  turned  and  saw  her  standing  there,  and 
heard  her  words. 

"This  man  saved  Lieutenant  Beverley's  life,"  she 
presently  added,  getting  better  control  of  her  voice, 
and  sending  into  it  a  thrilling  timbre;  "you  shall  not 
harm  him — you  must  not  do  it!" 

Beverley  was  astounded  when  he  saw  her,  the  thing 
was  so  unexpected,  so  daring,  and  done  with  such  high, 
imperious  force ;  still  it  was  but  a  realization  of  what  he 
had  imagined  she  would  be  upon  occasion.  He  stood 
gazing  at  her,  as  did  all  the  rest,  while  she  faced 
Clark  and  the  platoon  of  riflemen.  To  hear  his  own 
name  pass  her  quivering  lips,  in  that  tone  and  in  that 
connection,  seemed  to  him  a  consecration. 

"Would  you  be  more  savage  than  your  Indian  pris 
oner?"  she  went  on,  "less  grateful  than  he  for  a  life 
saved?  I  did  him  a  small,  a  very  small,  service  once, 
and  in  memory  of  that  he  saved  Lieutenant  Beverley's 
life,  because — because — "  she  faltered  for  a  single 
breath,  then  added  clearly  and  with  magnetic  sweetness 
— "because  Lieutenant  Beverley  loved  me,  and  because 
I  loved  him.  This  Indian  Long-Hair  showed  a  grati 
tude  that  could  overcome  his  strongest  passion.  You 
white  men  should  be  ashamed  to  fall  below  his  stand 
ard." 

Her  words  went  home.    It  was  as  if  the  beauty  of  her 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     397 

face,  the  magnetism  of  her  lissome  and  symmetrical 
form,  the  sweet  fire  of  her  eyes  and  the  passionate  ap 
peal  of  her  voice  gave  what  she  said  a  new  and 
irresistible  force  of  truth.  When  she  spoke  of  Bever- 
ley's  love  for  her,  and  declared  her  love  for  him,  there 
was  not  a  manly  heart  in  all  the  garrison  that  did  not 
suddenly  beat  quicker  and  feel  a  strange,  sweet  waft  of 
tenderness.  A  mother,  somewhere,  a  wife,  a  daughter, 
JL  sister,  a  sweetheart,  called  through  that  voice  of  ab- 
jolute  womanhood. 

"Beverley,  what  can  I  do?"  muttered  Clark,  his 
bronze  face  as  pale  as  it  could  possibly  become. 

"Do !"  thundered  Beverley,  "do !  you  cannot  murder 
that  man.  Hamilton  is  the  man  you  should  shoot! 
He  offered  large  rewards,  he  inflamed  the  passions 
and  fed  the  love  of  rum  and  the  cupidity  of  poor  wild 
men  like  the  one  standing  yonder.  Yet  you  take  him 
prisoner  and  treat  him  with  distinguished  considera 
tion.  Hamilton  offered  a  large  sum  for  me  taken  alive, 
a  smaller  one  for  my  scalp.  Long-Hair  saved  me. 
You  let  Hamilton  stand  yonder  in  perfect  safety  while 
you  shoot  the  Indian.  Shame  on  you,  Colonel  Clark! 
shame  on  you,  if  you  do  it." 

Alice  stood  looking  at  the  stalwart  commander  while 
Beverley  was  pouring  forth  his  torrent  of  scathing 
reference  to  Hamilton,  and  she  quickly  saw  that  Clark 
was  moved.  The  moment  was  ripe  for  the  finishing 
stroke.  They  say  it  is  genius  that  avails  itself  of 
opportunity.  Beverley  knew  the  fight  was  won  when 
he  saw  what  followed.  Alice  suddenly  left  Long-Hair 
and  ran  to  Colonel  Clark,  who  felt  her  warm,  strong 


Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

arms  loop  round  him  for  a  single  point  of  time  never 
to  be  effaced  from  his  memory ;  then  he  saw  her  kneel 
ing  at  his  feet,  her  hands  upstretched,  her  face  a  glori 
ous  prayer,  while  she  pleaded  the  Indian's  cause  and 
won  it. 

Doubtless,  while  we  all  rather  feel  that  Clark  was 
weak  to  be  thus  swayed  by  a  girl,  we  cannot  quite 
blame  him.  Alice's  flag  was  over  him ;  he  had  heard 
her  history  from  Beverley's  cunning  lips ;  he  actually 
believed  that  Hamilton  was  the  real  culprit,  and  be 
sides  he  felt  not  a  little  nauseated  with  executing 
Indians.  A  good  excuse  to  have  an  end  of  it  all  did 
not  go  begging. 

But  Long-Hair  was  barely  gone  over  the  horizon 
from  the  fort,  as  free  and  as  villainous  a  savage  as  ever 
trod  the  earth,  when  a  discovery  made  by  Oncle  Jazon 
caused  Clark  to  hate  himself  for  what  he  had  done. 

The  old  scout  picked  up  the  scalp,  which  Long- 
Hair  had  flung  at  Hamilton,  and  examined  it  with  odi 
ous  curiosity.  He  had  lingered  on  the  spot  with  no 
other  purpose  than  to  get  possession  of  that  ghastly 
relic.  Since  losing  his  own  scalp  the  subject  of  crown- 
locks  had  grown  upon  his  mind  until  its  fascination 
was  irresistible.  He  studied  the  hair  of  every  person 
he  saw,  as  a  physiognomist  studies  faces.  He  held 
the  gruesome  thing  up  before  him,  scrutinizing  it  with 
the  expression  of  a  connoisseur  who  has  discovered, 
on  a  grimy  canvas,  the  signature  of  an  old  master. 

"Sac'  bleu!"  he  presently  broke  forth.  "Well  I'll 
be Look'ee  yer,  George  Clark!  Come  yer  anf 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     399 

look.  Ye've  b-^n  sold  ag'in.  Take  a  squint,  ef  ye 
please !" 

Colonel  Clark,  with  his  hands  crossed  behind  him, 
his  face  thoughtfully  contracted,  was  walking  slowly  to 
and  fro  a  little  way  off.  He  turned  about  when  Oncle 
Jazon  spoke. 

" What  now,  Jazon?" 

"A  mighty  heap  right  now,  that's  what;  come  yer 
an'  let  me  show  ye.  Yer  a  fine  sort  o'  eejit,  now  ain't 
ye!" 

The  two  men  walked  toward  each  other  and  met. 
Oncle  Jazon  held  up  the  scalp  with  one  hand,  pointing 
at  it  with  the  index  finger  of  the  other. 

"This  here  scalp  come  ofFn  Rene  de  Ronville's 
head." 

"And  who  is  he?" 

"Who's  he?  Ye  may  well  ax  thet.  He  wuz  a 
Frenchman.  He  wuz  a  fine  young  feller  o'  this  town. 
He  killed  a  Corp'ral  o'  Hamilton's  an'  tuck  ter  the 
woods  a  month  or  two  ago.  Hamilton  offered  a  lot 
o'  money  for  'im  or  'is  scalp,  an'  Long-Hair  went  in  fer 
gittin'  it.  Now  ye  knows  the  whole  racket.  An' 
ye  lets  that  Injun  go.  An'  thet  same  Injun  he  mighty 
nigh  kicked  my  ribs  inter  my  stomach !" 

Oncle  Jazon's  feelings  were  visible  and  audible ;  but 
Clark  could  not  resent  the  contempt  of  the  old  man's 
looks  and  words.  He  felt  that  he  deserved  far  more 
than  he  was  receiving.  Nor  was  Oncle  Jazon  wrong. 
Rene  de  Ronville  never  came  back  to  little  Adrienne 
Bourcier,  although,  being  kept  entirely  ignorant  of  her 
lover's  fate,  she  waited  and  dreamed  and  hoped 


4<x>          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

throughout  more  than  two  years,  after  which  there  is 
no  further  record  of  her  life. 

Clark,  Beverley  and  Oncle  Jazon  consulted  together 
and  agreed  among  themselves  that  they  would  hold 
profoundly  secret  the  story  of  the  scalp.  To  have 
made  it  public  would  have  exasperated  the  Creoles  and 
set  them  violently  against  Clark,  a  thing  heavy  with 
disaster  for  all  his  future  plans.  As  it  was,  the  re 
lease  of  Long-Hair  caused  a  great  deal  of  dissatisfac 
tion  and  mutinous  talk.  Even  Beverley  now  felt  that 
the  execution  ordered  by  the  commander  ought  to  have 
been  sternly  carried  out. 

A  day  or  two  later,  however,  the  whole  dark  affair 
was  closed  forever  by  a  bit  of  confidence  on  the 
part  of  Oncle  Jazon  when  Beverley  dropped  into  his 
hut  one  evening  to  have  a  smoke  with  him. 

The  rain  was  over,  the  sky  shone  like  one  vast  lumi 
nary,  with  a  nearly  full  moon  and  a  thousand  stars 
reinforcing  it.  Up  from  the  south  poured  one  of  those 
balmy,  accidental  wind  floods,  sometimes  due  in  Febru 
ary  on  the  Wabash,  full  of  tropical  dream-hints,  yet 
edged  with  a  winter  chill  that  smacks  of  treachery. 
Oncle  Jazon  was  unusually  talkative ;  he  may  have  had 
a  deep  draught  of  liquor;  at  all  events  Beverley  had 
little  room  for  a  word. 

"Well,  bein'  as  it's  twixt  us,  as  is  bosom  frier- 's," 
the  old  fellow  presently  said,  "I'll  jes'  show  ye  somepin 
poorty." 

He  pricked  the  wick  of  a  lamp  and  took  down  his 
bunch  of  scalps. 


Some  Transactions  in  Scalps     401 

"I  hev  been  a  addin'  one  more  to  keep  company  o* 
mine  an'  the  tothers." 

He  separated  the  latest  acquisition  from  the  rest  of 
the  wisp  and  added,  with  a  heinous  chuckle: 

"This'n  's  Long-Hair's!" 

And  so  it  was.  Beverley  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe  and  rose  to  go. 

"Wen  they  kicks  yer  Oncle  Jazon's  ribs,"  the  old 
man  added,  "they'd  jes'  as  well  lay  down  an'  give  up, 
for  he's  goin'  to  salervate  'em." 

Then,  after  Beverley  had  passed  out  of  the  cabin, 
Oncle  Jazon  chirruped  after  him: 

"Mebbe  ye'd  better  not  tell  leetle  Alice.  The  pore 
leetle  gal  hev  hed  worry  'nough." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CLARK  ADVISES   ALICE 

A  few  days  after  the  surrender  of  Hamilton,  a  large 
boat,  the  Willing,  arrived  from  Kaskaskia.  It  was  well 
manned  and  heavily  armed.  Clark  fitted  it  out  before 
beginning  his  march  and  expected  it  to  be  of  great 
assistance  to  him  in  the  reduction  of  the  fort,  but  the 
high  waters  and  the  floating  driftwood  delayed  its 
progress,  so  that  its  disappointed  crew  saw  Alice's  flag 
floating  bright  and  high  when  their  eyes  first  looked 
upon  the  dull  little  town  from  far  down  the  swollen 
river.  There  was  much  rejoicing,  however,  when 
they  came  ashore  and  were  enthusiastically  greeted  by 
the  garrison  and  populace.  A  courier  whom  they 
picked  up  on  the  Ohio  came  with  them.  He  bore  dis 
patches  from  Governor  Henry  of  Virginia  to  Clark 
and  a  letter  for  Beverley  from  his  father.  With  them 
appeared  also  Simon  Kenton,  greatly  to  the  delight 
of  Oncle  Jazon,  who  had  worried  much  about  his 
friend  since  their  latest  fredaine — as  he  called  it — 
with  the  Indians.  Meantime  an  expedition  under  Cap 
tain  Helm  had  been  sent  up  the  river  with  the  purpose 
of  capturing  a  British  flotilla  from  Detroit. 

Gaspard  Roussillon,  immediately  after  Clark's  vic 
tory,  thought  he  saw  a  good  opening  favorable  to 
festivity  at  the  river  house,  for  which  he  soon  began 
to  make  some  of  his  most  ostentatious  preparations. 
Fate,  however,  as  usual  in  his  case,  interfered.  Fate 

401 


Clark  Advises  Alice  403 

seemed  to  like  pulling  the  big  Frenchman's  ear  now  and 
again,  as  if  to  remind  him  of  the  fact — which  he  was 
apt  to  forget — that  he  lacked  somewhat  of  omnipo 
tence. 

"Ziff!  Je  vais  donner  un  banquet  a  tout  le  monde, 
moil"  he  cried,  hustling  and  bustling  hither  and 
thither. 

A  scout  from  up  the  river  announced  the  approach 
of  Philip  Dejean  with  his  flotilla  richly  laden,  and 
what  little  interest  may  have  been  gathering  in  the 
direction  of  M.  Roussillon's  festal  proposition  van 
ished  like  the  flame  of  a  lamp  in  a  puff  of  wind  when 
this  news  reached  Colonel  Clark  and  became  known  in 
the  town. 

Beverley  and  Alice  sat  together  in  the  main  room 
of  the  Roussillon  cabin — you  could  scarcely  find  them 
separated  during  those  happy  days — and  Alice  was 
singing  to  the  soft  tinkle  of  a  guitar,  a  Creole  ditty 
with  a  merry  smack  in  its  scarcely  intelligible  non 
sense.  She  knew  nothing  about  music  beyond  what 
M.  Roussillon,  a  jack  of  all  trades,  had  been  able  to 
teach  her, — a  few  simple  chords  to  accompany  her 
songs,  picked  up  at  hap-hazard.  But  her  voice,  like 
her  face  and  form,  irradiated  witchery.  It  was  sweet, 
firm,  deep,  with  something  haunting  in  it — the  tone 
of  a  hermit  thrush,  marvelously  pure  and  clear,  car 
ried  through  a  gay  strain  like  the  mocking-bird's.  Of 
course  Beverley  thought  it  divine;  and  when  a  mes 
sage  came  from  Colonel  Clark  bidding  him  report 
for  duty  at  once,  he  felt  an  impulse  toward  mutiny 
of  the  rankest  sort.  He  did  not  dream  that  a  military 


404          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

expedition  could  be  on  hand ;  but  upon  reaching  head 
quarters,  the  first  thing  he  heard  was : 

""Report  to  Captain  Helm.  You  are  to  go  with  him 
up  the  river  and  intercept  a  British  force.  Move  lively, 
Helm  is  waiting  for  you,  probably." 

There  was  no  time  for  explanations.  Evidently 
Clark  expected  neither  questions  nor  delay.  Beverley's 
love  of  adventure  and  his  patriotic  desire  to  serve  his 
country  came  to  his  aid  vigorously  enough ;  still,  with 
Alice's  love-song  ringing  in  his  heart,  there  was  a  cord 
pulling  him  back  from  duty  to  the  sweetest  of  all  life's 
joys. 

Helm  was  already  at  the  landing,  where  a  little  fleet 
of  boats  was  being  prepared.  A  thousand  things  had 
to  be  done  in  short  order.  All  hands  were  stimulated 
to  highest  exertion  with  the  thought  of  another  fight. 
Swivels  were  mounted  in  boats,  ammunition  and  pro 
visions  stored  abundantly,  flags  hoisted  and  oars 
dipped.  Never  was  an  expedition  of  so  great  import 
ance  more  swiftly  organized  and  set  in  motion,  nor  did 
one  ever  have  a  more  prosperous  voyage  or  completer 
triumph.  Philip  Dejean,  Justice  of  Detroit,  with  his 
men,  boats  and  rich  cargo,  was  captured  easily,  with 
not  a  shot  fired,  nor  a  drop  of  blood  spilled  in  doing  it. 

If  Alice  could  have  known  all  this  before  it  hap 
pened,  she  would  probably  have  saved  herself  from  the 
mortification  of  a  rebuke  administered  very  kindly,  but 
not  the  less  thoroughly,  by  Colonel  Clark. 

The  rumor  came  to  her — a  brilliant  Creole  rumor, 
duly  inflated — that  an  overwhelming  British  force  was 
descending  the  riverr  and  that  Beverley  with  a  few 


Clark  Advises  Alice  405 

men,  not  sufficient  to  base  the  expedition  on  a  respect 
able  forlorn  hope,  would  be  sent  to  meet  them.  Her 
nature,  as  was  its  wont,  flared  into  high  indignation. 
What  right  had  Colonel  Clark  to  send  her  lover  away 
to  be  killed  just  at  the  time  when  he  was  all  the  whole 
world  to  her?  Nothing  could  be  more  outrageous. 
She  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  done;  not  she! 

Colonel  Clark  greeted  her  pleasantly,  when  she  came 
somewhat  abruptly  to  him,  where  he  was  directing  a 
squad  of  men  at  work  making  some  repairs  in  the 
picketing  of  the  fort.  He  did  not  observe  her  excite 
ment  until  she  began  to  speak,  and  then  it  was  notice 
able  only,  and  not  very  strongly,  in  her  tone.  She  for 
got  to  speak  English,  and  her  French  was  Greek  to  him. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said, 
rather  inconsequently,  lifting  his  hat  and  bowing  with 
rough  grace,  while  he  extended  his  right  hand  cor 
dially.  "You  have  something  to  say  to  me?  Come 
with  me  to  my  office." 

She  barely  touched  his  fingers. 

"Yes,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  can  tell  it 
here,"  she  said,  speaking  English  now  with  softest 
creole  accent.  "I  wanted — I  came  to — "  It  was  not 
so  easy  as  she  had  imagined  it  would  be  to  utter  what 
she  had  in  mind.  Clark's  steadfast,  inscrutable  eyes, 
kindly  yet  not  altogether  sympathetic,  met  her  own 
and  beat  them  down.  Her  voice  failed. 

He  offered  her  his  arm  and  gravely  said : 

"We  will  go  to  my  office.  I  see  that  you  have  some 
important  communication  to  make.  There  are  too 
many  ears  here." 


406          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

Of  a  sudden  she  felt  like  running  home.  Somehow 
the  situation  broke  upon  her  with  a  most  embarrassing 
effect.  She  did  not  take  Clark's  arm,  and  she  began 
to  tremble.  He  appeared  unconscious  of  this,  and 
probably  was,  for  his  mind  had  a  fine  tangle  of  great 
schemes  in  it  just  then;  but  he  turned  toward  his 
office,  and  bidding  her  follow  him,  walked  away  in  that 
direction. 

She  was  helpless.  Not  the  slightest  trace  of  her 
usual  brilliant  self-assertion  was  at  her  command. 
Saving  the  squad  of  men  sawing  and  hacking,  digging 
and  hammering,  the  fort  appeared  as  deserted  as  her 
mind.  She  stood  gazing  after  Clark.  He  did  not  look 
back,  but  strode  right  on.  If  she  would  speak  with 
him,  she  must  follow.  It  was  a  surprise  to  her,  for 
heretofore  she  had  always  had  her  own  way,  even  if 
she  found  it  necessary  to  use  force.  And  where  was 
Beverley?  Where  was  the  garrison?  Colonel  Dark 
did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  concerned  about  the  approach 
of  the  British — and  yet  those  repairs — perhaps  he  was 
making  ready  for  a  desperate  resistance !  She  did  not 
move  until  he  reached  the  door  of  his  office  where  he 
stopped  and  stepped  aside,  as  if  to  let  her  pass  in  first ; 
he  even  lifted  his  hat,  then  looked  a  trifle  surprised 
when  he  saw  that  she  was  not  near  him,  frowned  slight 
ly,  changed  the  frown  to  a  smile  and  said,  lifting  his 
voice  so  that  she  felt  a  certain  imperative  meaning  in 
it: 

"Did  I  walk  too  fast  for  you?    I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mademoiselle." 


Clark  Advises  Alice  407 

He  stood  waiting  for  her,  as  a  father  waits  for  a 
lagging,  wilful  child. 

"Come,  please,"  he  added,  "if  you  have  something 
to  say  to  me ;  my  time  just  now  is  precious — I  have  a 
great  deal  to  do." 

She  was  not  of  a  nature  to  retreat  under  fire,  and 
yet  the  panic  in  her  breast  came  very  near  mastering 
her  will.  Clark  saw  a  look  in  her  face  which  made 
him  speak  again: 

"I  assure  you,  Mademoiselle,  that  you  need  not  feel 
embarrassed.  You  can  rely  upon  me  to " 

She  made  a  gesture  that  interrupted  him;  at  the 
same  time  she  almost  ran  toward  him,  gathering  in 
breath,  as  one  does  who  is  about  to  force  out  a  des 
perately  resisting  and  riotous  thought.  The  strong, 
grave  man  looked  at  her  with  a  full  sense 
of  her  fascination,  and  at  the  same  time  he  felt  a 
vague  wish  to  get  away  from  her,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  cast  unwelcome  responsibility  upon  him. 

"Where  is  Lieutenant  Beverley?"  she  demanded, 
now  close  to  Clark,  face  to  face,  and  gazing  straight 
into  his  eyes.  "I  want  to  see  him."  Her  tone  sug 
gested  intensest  excitement.  She  was  trembling  vis 
ibly. 

Clark's  face  changed  its  expression.  He  suddenly 
recalled  to  mind  Alice's  rapturous  public  greeting  of 
Beverley  on  the  day  of  the  surrender.  He  was  a 
cavalier,  and  it  did  not  agree  with  his  sense  of  high 
propriety  for  girls  to  kiss  their  lovers  out  in  the  open 
air  before  a  gazing  army.  True  enough,  he  himself 
had  been  hoodwinked  by  Alice's  beauty  and  boldness  in 


408          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

the  matter  of  Long-Hair.  He  confessed  this  to  himself 
mentally,  which  may  have  strengthened  his  present  dis 
approval  of  her  personal  inquiry  about  Beverley.  At 
all  events  he  thought  she  ought  not  to  be  coming  into 
the  stockade  on  such  an  errand. 

"Lieutenant  Beverley  is  absent  acting  under  my  or 
ders,"  he  said,  with  perfect  respectfulness,  yet  in  a 
tone  suggesting  military  finality.  He  meant  to  set  an 
indefinite  yet  effective  rebuke  in  his  words. 

"Absent  ?"  she  echoed.  "Gone  ?  You  sent  him  away 
to  be  killed !  You  had  no  right — you — " 

"Miss  Roussillon,"  said  Clark,  becoming  almost 
stern,  "you  had  better  go  home  and  stay  there ;  young 
girls  oughtn't  to  run  around  hunting  men  in  places  like 
this." 

His  blunt  severity  of  speech  was  accompanied  by  a 
slight  frown  and  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Alice's  face  blazed  red  to  the  roots  of  her  sunny 
hair;  the  color  ebbed,  giving  place  to  a  pallor  like 
death.  She  began  to  tremble,  and  her  lips  quivered 
pitifully,  but  she  braced  herself  and  tried  to  force  back 
the  choking  sensation  in  her  throat. 

"You  must  not  misconstrue  my  words,"  Clark  quick 
ly  added;  "I  simply  mean  that  men  will  not  rightly 
understand  you.  They  will  form  impressions  very 
harmful  to  you.  Even  Lieutenant  Beverley  might  not 
see  you  in  the  right  light." 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  she  gasped,  shrinking 
from  him,  a  burning  spot  reappearing  under  the 
dimpled  skin  of  each  cheek. 

"Pray,  Miss,  do  not  get  excited.     There  is  nothing 


Clark  Advises  Alice  409 

to  make  you  cry."  He  saw  tears  shining  in  her  eyes. 
"Beverley  is  not  in  the  slightest  danger.  All  will  be 
well,  and  he'll  come  back  in  a  few  days.  The  expedi 
tion  will  be  but  a  pleasure  trip.  Now  you  go  home. 
Lieutenant  Beverley  is  amply  able  to  take  care  of  him 
self.  And  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  expect  a  good  man  to 
have  great  confidence  in  you,  stay  home  and  let  him 
hunt  you  up  instead  of  you  hunting  him.  A  man  likes 
that  better." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  Alice's  feelings, 
as  they  just  then  rose  like  a  whirling  storm  in  her 
heart.  She  was  humiliated,  she  was  indignant,  she  was 
abashed;  she  wanted  to  break  forth  with  a  tempest 
of  denial,  self-vindication,  resentment;  she  wanted  to 
cry  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  What  she  did 
was  to  stand  helplessly  gazing  at  Clark,  with  two  or 
three  bright  tears  on  either  cheek,  her  hands  clenched, 
her  eyes  flashing.  She  was  going  to  say  some  wild 
thing;  but  she  did  not;  her  voice  lodged  fast  in  her 
throat.  She  moved  her  lips,  unable  to  make  a  sound. 

Two  of  Clark's  officers  relieved  the  situation  by 
coming  up  to  get  orders  about  some  matter  of  town 
government,  and  Alice  scarcely  knew  how  she  made 
her  way  home.  Every  vein  in  her  body  was  humming 
like  a  bee  when  she  entered  the  house  and  flung  her 
self  into  a  chair. 

She  heard  Madame  Roussillon  and  Father  Beret 
chatting  in  the  kitchen,  whence  came  a  fragrance  of 
broiling  buffalo  steak  besprinkled  with  garlic.  It 
was  Father  Beret's  favorite  dish,  wherefore  his  tongue 
ran  freely — almost  as  freely  as  that  of  his  hostesa 


4io          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

and  when  he  heard  Alice  come  in,  he  called  gayly  tc 
her  through  the  kitchen  door : 

"Come  here,  ma  fille,  and  lend  us  old  folks  you) 
appetite;  nous  avons  une  tranche  a  la  Bordelaise!" 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  she  managed  to  say,  "you  ca* 
eat  it  without  me." 

The  old  man's  quick  ears  caught  the  quaver  of  trou 
ble  in  her  voice,  much  as  she  tried  to  hide  it.  A  mo 
ment  later  he  was  standing  beside  her  with  his  hand 
on  her  head. 

"What  is  the  matter  now,  little  one?"  he  tenderly 
demanded.  "Tell  your  old  Father." 

She  began  to  cry,  laying  her  face  in  her  crossed 
arms,  the  tears  gushing,  her  whole  frame  aquiver,  and 
heaving  great  sobs.  She  seemed  to  shrink  like  a 
trodden  flower.  It  touched  Father  Beret  deeply. 

He  suspected  that  Beverley's  departure  might  be  the 
cause  of  her  trouble ;  but  when  presently  she  told  him 
what  had  taken  place  in  the  fort,  he  shook  his  head 
gravely  and  frowned. 

"Colonel  Clark  was  right,  my  daughter,"  he  said 
after  a  short  silence,  "and  it  is  time  for  you  to  ponder 
well  upon  the  significance  of  his  words.  You  can't 
always  be  a  wilful,  headstrong  little  girl,  running 
everywhere  and  doing  just  as  you  please.  You  have 
grown  to  be  a  woman  in  stature — you  must  be  one  in 
fact.  You  know  I  told  you  at  first  to  be  careful  how 
you  acted  with " 

"Father,  dear  old  Father !"  she  cried,  springing  from 
her  seat  and  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "Have 


Clark  Advises  Alice  411 

I  appeared  forward  and  unwomanly  ?  Tell  me,  Father, 
tell  me !  I  did  not  mean  to  do  anything " 

"Quietly,  my  child,  don't  give  way  to  excitement." 
He  gently  put  her  from  him  and  crossed  himself — a 
habit  of  his  when  suddenly  perplexed — then  added: 

"You  have  done  no  evil ;  but  there  are  proprieties 
which  a  young  woman  must  not  overstep.  You  are 
impulsive,  too  impulsive;  and  it  will  not  do  to  let  a 
young  man  see  that  you — that  you " 

"Father,  I  understand,"  she  interrupted,  and  her 
face  grew  very  pale. 

Madame  Roussillon  came  to  the  door,  flushed  with 
stooping  over  the  fire,  and  announced  that  the  steak 
was  ready. 

"Bring  the  wine,  Alice/'  she  added,  "a  bottle  of  Bor 
deaux." 

She  stood  for  a  breath  or  two,  her  red  hands  on  her 
hips,  looking  first  at  Father  Beret,  then  at  Alice. 

"Quarreling  again  about  the  romances?"  she  in 
quired.  "She's  been  at  it  again? — she's  found  'em 
again  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Father  Beret,  with  a  queer,  dry  smile, 
"more  romance.  Yes,  she's  been  at  it  again!  Now 
fetch  the  Bordeaux,  little  one." 

The  following  days  were  cycles  of  torture  to  Alice. 
She  groveled  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  dread.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  Beverley  could  not  love  her,  could 
not  help  looking  upon  her  as  a  poor,  wild,  foolish  girl, 
unworthy  of  consideration.  She  magnified  her  faults 
and  crudities,  she  paraded  before  her  inner  vision  her 
recent  improprieties,  as  they  had  been  disclosed  to  her, 


412          Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

until  she  saw  herself  a  sort  of  monstrosity  at  which  alt 
mankind  was  gazing  with  disgust.  Life  seemed  dry 
and  shriveled,  a  mere  jaundiced  shadow,  while  her 
love  for  Beverley  took  on  a  new  growth,  luxuriant,  all- 
embracing,  uncontrollable.  The  ferment  of  spirit  go 
ing  on  in  her  breast  was  the  inevitable  process  of  self- 
recognition  which  follows  the  terrible  unfolding  of  the 
passion-flower,  in  a  nature  almost  absolutely  simple 
and  unsophisticated. 

Vincennes  held  its  breath  while  waiting  for  news 
from  Helm's  expedition.  Every  day  had  its  nimble, 
yet  wholly  imaginary  account  of  what  had  happened, 
skipping  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  from  cabin  to 
cabin.  The  French  folk  ran  hither  and  thither  in  the 
persistent  rain,  industriously  improving  the  dramatic 
interest  of  each  groundless  report.  Alice's  disturbed 
imagination  reveled  in  the  kaleidoscopic  terrors  con 
jured  up  by  these  swift  changes  of  the  form  and  color 
of  the  stories  "from  the  front,"  all  of  them  more  or 
less  tragic.  To-day  the  party  is  reported  as  having 
been  surprised  and  massacred  to  a  man — to-morrow 
there  has  been  a  great  fight,  many  killed,  the  result  in 
doubt — next  day  the  British  are  defeated,  and  so  on. 
The  volatile  spirit  of  the  Creoles  fairly  surpassed  itself 
in  ringing  the  changes  on  stirring  rumors. 

Alice  scarcely  left  the  house  during  the  whole  period 
of  excitement  and  suspense.  Like  a  wounded  bird, 
she  withdrew  herself  from  the  light  and  noisy  chatter 
of  her  friends,  seeking  only  solitude  and  crepuscular 
nooks  in  which  to  suffer  silently.  Jean  brought  her 
every  picturesque  bit  of  the  ghastly  gossip,  thus  heap- 


Clark  Advises  Alice  413 

ing  coals  on  the  fire  of  her  torture.  But  she  did  not 
grow  pale  and  thin.  Not  a  dimple  fled  from  cheek  or 
chin,  not  a  ray  of  saucy  sweetness  vanished  from  her 
eyes.  Her  riant  health  was  unalterable.  Indeed,  the 
only  change  in  her  was  a  sudden  ripening  and  mellow 
ing  of  her  beauty,  by  which  its  colors,  its  lines,  its 
subtle  undercurrents  of  expression  were  spiritualized, 
as  if  by  some  powerful  clarifying  process. 

Tremendous  is  the  effect  of  a  soul  surprised  by 
passion  and  brought  hard  up  against  an  opposing  force 
which  dashes  it  back  upon  itself  with  a  flare  and  ex 
plosion  of  self-revealment.  Nor  shall  we  ever  be  able 
to  foretell  just  how  small  a  circumstance,  just  how 
slight  an  exigency,  will  suffice  to  bring  on  the  great 
change.  The  shifting  of  a  smile  to  the  gloom  of  a 
frown,  the  snap  of  a  string  on  the  lute  of  our  imagina 
tion,  just  at  the  point  when  a  rich  melody  is  culminat 
ing;  the  waving  of  a  hand,  a  vanishing  face — any 
eclipse  of  tender,  joyous  expectation — dashes  a  name 
less  sense  of  despair  into  the  soul.  And  a  young  girl's 
soul — who  shall  uncover  its  sacred  depths  of  sensitive 
ness,  or  analyze  its  capacity  for  suffering  under  such 
a  stroke? 

On  the  fifth  day  of  March,  back  came  the  victorious 
Helm,  having  surrounded  and  captured  seven  boats, 
richly  loaded  with  provisions  and  goods,  and  De jean's 
whole  force.  Then  again  the  little  Creole  town  went 
wild  with  rejoicing.  Alice  heard  the  news  and  the 
noise ;  but  somehow  there  was  no  response  in  her  heart. 
She  dreaded  to  meet  Beverley ;  indeed,  she  did  not  ex 
pect  him  to  come  to  her.  Why  should  he? 


Alice  of  Old  Vmcennes 

M.  Roussillon,  who  had  volunteered  to  accompany 
Helm,  arrived  in  a  mood  of  unlimited  proportions,  so 
far  as  expressing  self-admiration  and  abounding  de 
light  was  concerned.  You  would  have  been  sure  that 
he  had  done  the  whole  deed  single-handed,  and  brought 
the  flotilla  and  captives  to  town  on  his  back.  But 
Oncle  Jazon  for  once  held  his  tongue,  being  too  dis 
gusted  for  words  at  not  having  been  permitted  to  fire 
a  single  shot.  What  was  the  use  of  going  to  fight  and 
simply  meeting  and  escorting  down  the  river  a  lot  of 
non-combatants  ? 

There  is  something  inscrutably  delightful  about  a 
girl's  way  of  thinking  one  thing  and  doing  another. 
Perversity,  thy  name  is  maidenhood ;  and  maidenhood, 
thy  name  is  delicious  inconsequence!  When  Alice 
heard  that  Beverley  had  come  back,  safe,  victorious, 
to  be  greeted  as  one  of  the  heroes  of  an  important  ad 
venture,  she  immediately  ran  to  her  room  frightened 
and  full  of  vague,  shadowy  dread,  to  hide  from  him, 
yet  feeling  sure  that  he  would  not  come!  Moreover, 
she  busied  herself  with  the  preposterous  task  of  put 
ting  on  her  most  attractive  gown — the  buff  brocade 
which  she  wore  that  evening  at  the  river  house — how 
long  ago  it  seemed! — when  Beverley  thought  her  the 
queenliest  beauty  in  the  world.  And  she  was  putting 
it  on  so  as  to  look  her  prettiest  while  hiding  from  him ! 

It  is  a  toss-up  where  happiness  will  make  its  nest. 
The  palace,  the  hut,  the  great  lady's  garden,  the  wild 
lass's  bower, — skip  here,  alight  there, — the  secret  of  it 
may  never  be  told.  And  love  and  beauty  find  lodg 
ment,  by  the  same  inexplicable  route,  in  the  same  ex- 


Clark  Advises  Alice  415 

tremes  of  circumstances.  The  wind  bloweth  where  it 
listeth,  finding  many  a  matchless  flower  and  many  a 
ravishing  fragrance  in  the  wildest  nooks  of  the  world. 

No  sooner  did  Beverley  land  at  the  little  wharf  than, 
rushing  to  his  quarters,  he  made  a  hasty  exchange 
of  water-soaked  apparel  for  something  more  comforta 
ble,  and  then  bolted  in  the  direction  of  Roussillon  place. 

Now  Alice  knew  by  the  beating  of  her  heart  that  he 
was  coming.  In  spite  of  all  she  could  do,  trying  to 
hold  on  hard  and  fast  to  her  doubt  and  gloom,  a  tide 
of  rich  sweetness  began  to  course  through  her  heart 
and  break  in  splendid  expectation  from  her  eyes,  as 
they  looked  through  the  little  unglazed  window  toward 
the  fort.  Nor  had  she  long  to  wait.  He  came  up  the 
narrow  wet  street,  striding  like  a  tall  actor  in  the 
height  of  a  melodrama,  his  powerful  figure  erect  as  an 
Indian's,  and  his  face  glowing  with  the  joy  of  a  genu 
ine,  impatient  lover,  who  is  proud  of  himself  because 
of  the  image  he  bears  in  his  heart. 

When  Alice  flung  wide  the  door  (which  was  before 
Beverley  could  cross  the  veranda),  she  had  quite  for 
gotten  how  she  had  gowned  and  bedecked  herself ;  and 
so,  without  a  trace  of  self-consciousness,  she  flashed 
upon  him  a  full-blown  flower — to  his  eyes  the  loveliest 
that  ever  opened  under  heaven. 

Gaspard  Roussillon,  still  overflowing  with  the  im 
portance  of  his  part  in  the  capture  of  Dejean,  came 
puffing  homeward  just  in  time  to  see  a  man  at  the 
door  holding  Alice  a-tiptoe  in  his  arms. 

"Ziff!"  he  cried,  as  he  pushed  open  the  little  front 
gate  of  the  yard,  "en  voila  asses,  vogue  la  galere!" 


416         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

The  two  forms  disappeared  within  the  house,  as  if 

moved  by  his  roaring  voice. 
********** 

The  letter  to  Beverley  from  his  father  was  some 
what  disturbing.  It  bore  the  tidings  of  his  mother's 
failing  health.  This  made  it  easier  for  the  young 
Lieutenant  to  accept  from  Clark  the  assignment  to 
duty  with  a  party  detailed  for  the  purpose  of  escorting 
Hamilton,  Farnsworth  and  several  other  British  offi 
cers  to  Williamsburg,  Virginia.  It  also  gave  him  a 
most  powerful  assistance  in  persuading  Alice  to  marry 
him  at  once,  so  as  to  go  with  him  on  what  proved  to  be 
a  delightful  wedding  journey  through  the  great  wilder 
ness  to  the  Old  Dominion.  Spring's  verdure  burst 
abroad  on  the  sunny  hills  as  they  slowly  went  their 
way;  the  mating  birds  sang  in  every  blooming  brake 
and  grove  by  which  they  passed,  and  in  their  joyous 
hearts  they  heard  the  bubbling  of  love's  eternal  foun 
tain. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AND  SO  IT  ENDED 

Our  story  must  end  here,  because  at  this  point  its 
current  flows  away  forever  from  old  Vincennes;  and 
it  was  only  of  the  post  on  the  Wabash  that  we  set  out 
to  make  a  record.  What  befell  Alice  and  Beverley 
after  they  went  to  Virginia  we  could  go  on  to  tell ;  but 
that  would  be  another  story.  Suffice  it  to  say,  they 
lived  happily  ever  after,  or  at  least  somewhat  beyond 
three  score  and  ten,  and  left  behind  them  a  good  name 
and  numerous  descendants. 

How  Alice  found  out  her  family  in  Virginia,  we  are 
not  informed ;  but  after  a  lapse  of  some  years  from  the 
date  of  her  marriage,  there  appears  in  one  of  her  let 
ters  a  reference  to  an  estate  inherited  from  her  Tarle- 
ton  ancestors,  and  her  name  appears  in  old  records 
signed  in  full,  Alice  Tarleton  Beverley.  A  descendant 
of  hers  still  treasures  the  locket,  with  its  broken  minia 
ture  and  battered  crest,  which  won  Beverley's  life  from 
Long-Hair,  the  savage.  Beside  it,  as  carefully 
guarded,  is  the  Indian  charm-stone  that  stopped  Ham 
ilton's  bullet  over  Alice's  heart.  The  rapiers  have 
somehow  disappeared,  and  there  is  a  tradition  in  the 
Tarleton  family  that  they  were  given  by  Alice  to  Gas- 
pard  Roussillon,  who,  after  Madame  Roussillon's 
death  in  1790,  went  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  stayed 
a  year  or  two  before  embarking  for  France,  whither 

417 


418         Alice  of  Old  Vincennes 

he  took  with  him  the  beautiful  pair  of  colechemardes 
and  Jean  the  hunchback. 

Oncle  Jazon  lived  in  Vincennes  many  years  after  the 
war  was  over;  but  he  died  at  Natchez,  Mississippi, 
when  ninety-three  years  old.  He  said,  with  almost 
his  last  breath,  that  he  couldn't  shoot  very  well,  even 
in  his  best  days;  but  that  he  had,  upon  various  occa 
sions,  "jes*  kind  o'  happened  to  hit  a  Injun  in  the  lef 
eye."  They  used  to  tell  a  story,  as  late  as  General 
Harrison's  stay  in  Vincennes,  about  how  Oncle  Jazon 
buried  his  collection  of  scalps,  with  great  funeral  so 
lemnity,  as  his  part  of  the  celebration  of  peace  and  in 
dependence  about  the  year  1784. 

Good  old  Father  Beret  died  suddenly  soon  after 
Alice's  marriage  and  departure  for  Virginia.  He  was 
found  lying  face  downward  on  the  floor  of  his  cabin. 
Near  him,  on  a  smooth  part  of  a  puncheon,  were  the 
mildewed  fragments  of  a  letter,  which  he  had  been 
arranging,  as  if  to  read  its  contents.  Doubtless  it  was 
the  same  letter  brought  to  him  by  Rene  de  Ronville,  as 
recorded  in  an  early  chapter  of  our  story.  The  frag 
ments  were  gathered  up  and  buried  with  him.  His 
dust  lies  under  the  present  Church  of  St.  Xavier, — the 
dust  of  as  noble  a  man  and  as  true  a  priest  as  ever 
sacrificed  himself  for  the  good  of  humanity. 

In  after  years  Simon  Kenton  visited  Beverley  and 
Alice  in  their  Virginia  home.  To  his  dying  day  he 
was  fond  of  describing  their  happy  and  hospitable 
welcome  and  the  luxuries  to  which  they  introduced 
him.  They  lived  in  a  stately  white  mansion  on  a  hill 
overlooking  a  vast  tobacco  plantation,  where  hundreds 


And  So  It  Ended  419 

of  negro  slaves  worked  and  sang  by  day  and  frolicked 
by  night.  Their  oldest  child  was  named  Fitzhugh 
Gaspard.  Kenton  died  in  1836. 

There  remains  but  one  little  fact  worth  recording 
before  we  close  the  book.  In  the  year  1800,  on  the 
fourth  of  July,  a  certain  leading  French  family  of  Vin- 
cennes  held  a  patriotic  reunion,  during  which  a  little 
old  flag  was  produced  and  its  story  told.  Some  one 
happily  proposed  that  it  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Alice  Tarle- 
ton  Beverley  with  a  letter  of  explanation,  and  in  pro 
found  recognition  of  the  glorious  circumstances  which 
made  it  the  true  flag  of  the  great  Northwest. 

And  so  it  happened  that  Alice's  little  banner  went 
to  Virginia  and  is  still  preserved  in  an  old  mansion 
not  very  far  from  Monticello;  but  it  seems  likely  that 
the  Wabash  Valley  will  soon  again  possess  the  precious 
relic.  The  marriage  engagement  of  Miss  Alice  Bev 
erley  to  a  young  Indiana  officer,  distinguished  for  his 
patriotism  and  military  ardor,  has  been  announced 
at  the  old  Beverley  homestead  on  the  hill,  and  the  high 
contracting  parties  have  planned  that  the  wedding 
ceremony  shall  take  place  under  the  famous  little  flag, 
on  the  anniversary  of  Clark's  capture  of  Post  Vin- 
cennes.  When  the  bride  shall  be  brought  to  her  new 
home  on  the  banks  of  the  Wabash,  the  flag  will  come 
with  her;  but  Oncle  Jazon  will  not  be  on  hand  with 
his  falsetto  shout:  "Vive  la  banniere  d' Alice  Roussil- 
lon!  Vive  Zhorzh  Vasinton!" 


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